


Dust in Sunlight

by wobblyheadeddollcaper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Daemon Touching, Daemon Separation, Eventual Happy Ending, Eye Trauma, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, References to Addiction, References to Depression, borrowing dialogue from ep 159 because tma plays me like a cheap whistle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26090344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblyheadeddollcaper/pseuds/wobblyheadeddollcaper
Summary: In which Martin Blackwood acquires a Leitner, a daemon, a problem and some perspective.Set in Season 4, around the events of Entombed, and diverges from canon from there.Featuring Jon The Archivist as Anxious, Martin Blackwood as Avoidant, Peter Lukas as The Embodiment of Depression, and Basira Hussain as Done With This.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 172
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [these strange trails](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349081) by [Ronabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronabird/pseuds/Ronabird). 
  * Inspired by [Stray Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796658) by [Aryashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryashi/pseuds/Aryashi). 
  * Inspired by [Build Me No Shrines (or: The Daemon Archives)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540445) by [Meeshdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meeshdragon/pseuds/Meeshdragon), [Ronabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronabird/pseuds/Ronabird). 



> This is set in the Magnus Archives universe. The daemon is a side-effect of a book-related accident, and daemons are not a known concept.

There was a Leitner in Martin's hands.

It didn't have the decency to be in the archives, or artifact storage, or dropped on his desk by Peter like a dead bird brought by a cat (though in that metaphor Martin was very aware he was a mouse, which he refused to think about right now, because there was a Leitner in his hands).

Instead of being in any of the proper places for a Leitner, it was sitting on the shelf of the nice little second hand-bookshop in Bloomsbury where Martin liked to go and browse poetry zines on Saturday afternoons. There was something pleasant about avoiding Keats and Neruda and other luminaries and going straight for the tiny queer poetry anthologies written by poets his own age, in grainy booklets photocopied and stapled at someone's day job when the boss wasn't looking. It made publishing his poetry seem more achievable, even if realistically he was still quite a few rungs down the ladder. Anyway, Peter would probably notice him photocopying 50 booklets of sad poems and tell him to stop it, maybe even vanish a co-worker or two to make it stick.

The Leitner was a paperback book, modern-looking, lying supine on top of a row of English Literature Cliffs Notes. The cover bore no title or author name, only a photograph of an hourglass in black and white, with flecks of gold foil on the sand flowing through it. Martin had only picked it up to shelve it properly, but flicked through the pages, stopping at a curious illustration of a woman cradling a rabbit, with streaming lines of dots around her. He traced the curling lines of dots with his finger.

He turned to the frontispiece to check the title, and the smug little “From the Library of Jurgen Leitner” label turned his blood cold. His involuntary yelp earned him a brief glance from the other browsing patrons.

“Damn it,” he said quietly. He couldn't just put it back and leave it to prey on someone else, but he also deeply didn't want to touch it further. He tried to handle the book as little as possible as he paid for it, and wrapped it in two plastic shopping bags before carrying it home. With each step he was hyper-aware of every person who came near him and his dangerous cargo. He left it in the hallway of his tiny one-bed flat, right by the door, and kept checking that it hadn't moved. He slept restlessly, his dreams full of flowing golden dust.

In the morning it was still there, and neatly curled up next to it was a small, russet spaniel.

“Oh hello there,” Martin said, in the voice he used for children, pets and, increasingly these days, for tape recorders.

The spaniel opened its eyes and sat up. 

“Hello,” it said in a high-pitched, girlish voice. 

“What?” Martin said, also in a high-pitched voice. The spaniel flinched back a little, and Martin felt the flinch as if it had happened to him, or in him.

“I'm Sylvia,” the spaniel said. “I think I'm yours?”

“You... feel like mine,” Martin said. She did, a strange connection stretching between them like an invisible string. “God, that's weird – what are you?” He crouched down and offered her his hand. She came over and sniffed it, then butted her head up into it. Her fur was very soft under his fingers, and she made a small contented noise as Martin scratched her behind the ears.

“I'm part of you,” Sylvia said. “I'm your soul. Or you're mine. I've always been with you, but last night something odd happened and now I'm out here.”

Martin glared at the book, still wrapped in plastic.

“Yes, I think it's the book too,” Sylvia said. “And whatever it did, we probably need to reverse it.”

“Bloody hell – all right, Sylvia, what do you think? Should we assume it's done its work, whatever that is, and read it properly to see if we can figure out what happened, do we take it in to artifact storage, do we burn it?”

“None of those,” Sylvia said, scratching behind one ear with her hind paw. “We go to Jon and Basira, and then we read it with them watching out for us. In case it does something bad and we need help.”

“I can't talk to Jon,” Martin said quietly. “You know that.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Basira I can maybe get away with, but who knows what Peter will do if he finds out I've seen Jon? Especially if I seek him out.” 

“I don't like Peter,” Sylvia said firmly. “He's a prick. And whatever game he's playing it can't be good-”

“I'm not an idiot, I'm aware of that.” Martin patted Sylvia's head again, feeling how small it was under his fingers. “He probably won't like you much either. I don't suppose you can stay here at the flat?”

Sylvia whined a little, pressing close to Martin's leg. He could feel the phantom ache of separation at the though of leaving her behind.

“No, I thought not. Maybe we can disguise you-”

“What as, a cat?”

“As a normal dog, smart-arse. Collar, lead...”

“Muzzle,” Sylvia said reluctantly. “In case someone tries to pet me.”

Martin shuddered, just thinking about it. Someone else, casually putting their hands on his soul. It felt obscene, in some deep, instinctive way that was beyond question.

“Basira, then?”

“Okay.” Martin firmly quashed the hope that they might run into Jon. He'd told Jon to stay away, and that was good, that was the plan.


	2. Chapter 2

The pet shop down the road provided a nice collar and lead in a green that suited Sylvia's curly red coat. She had to growl at the poor shop assistant to avoid getting touched, though people seemed mostly to ignore her.

“Perhaps they can tell what I am, on some level.” Sylvia said, trotting along at Martin's heels.

“Do you think Peter will be able to tell?”

Sylvia pressed close to his leg. 

“If he can,” she said softly, “he might try to... take me away. It would make you more lonely.”

“I thought I was doing a pretty good job of making myself lonely,” Martin said. The colour had leached from his life like the tide going out, incremental but progressing so very, very fast. It was so easy to lose friends, to lose his hobbies, himself. All he'd had to do was put his head down for a while and not look up.

“It's not you making yourself lonely, it's him.” Sylvia growled a little, a lower, softer sound than the fake growls she'd scared the shop assistant with. “I'm you, Martin. Or part of you – anyway, I can tell it's not you. He's working on you all the time, and part of what he's doing is making you feel like you're doing it to yourself.”

“Maybe.” Martin couldn't quite bring himself to agree. Something in him wanted to cling to the idea that this was his choice. Maybe because if he was the one dismantling his own life down to the bare boards he could stop it, any time he really wanted to. If Peter was doing it, Martin was far more trapped than he'd been pretending to be.

Sylvia grumbled under her breath, and Martin pretended not to hear her.

“It's really weird how not-weird this feels. Walking around talking to the part of me that's a sad puppy.”

“I'm not a sad puppy! You're the sad one, I'm just along for the ride.” Sylvia jumped up against Martin's thigh, and Martin scooped her up to carry her, trying not to think about how long it had been since he'd had this much contact with any living thing. The warm, breathing weight of her in his arms felt good.

*

Dogs weren't allowed in the institute, but with a rucksack and a very quiet and cooperative dog they could apparently be smuggled in. Martin also carried the Leitner, still swathed in plastic bags.

“Last chance to change our minds,” he muttered under his breath. “Any new ideas?”

“If we take it to artifact storage we'll be stuck like this. They'll just file it and forget. Basira's still the best option.”

There were a few subtle double takes as Martin walked towards the archives. He'd become an unfamiliar face, and from the way people avoided him it was obvious that they saw him as the assistant to Peter Lukas. Scared glances, conversations ceasing as he walked by. Good, he told himself bitterly. All according to plan.

Basira was at Martin's old desk, looking through yellowed files of old statements.

“Hi Basira. I've got a little problem – are you free?”

“Sure.”

“Are the others around?”

“Nah, Melanie's not coming in till... probably next week? And I haven't seen Jon since I got in from my trip. He hasn't come in yet today, I think.” A little part of Martin was disappointed, and he told it to shut up.

“Good, yeah, fewer people is probably best.”

“What's up?”

“I have this Leitner – one of those spooky books. Found it in a bookshop on the weekend.”

“So take it to artifact storage.” Basira said dismissively.

“I need to find out how to undo the effects first. I was hoping you could, um, make sure it didn't do anything worse to me while I read it. Or call an ambulance if it does.”

“What did it do to you?”

“Not entirely sure-”

Sylvia wriggled in the rucksack, and Basira leapt up from behind her desk, reaching into one of the drawers to pull out a knife that definitely hadn't been there when it had been Martin's desk.

“Woah, hey, it's not-”

“Martin, let me out,” Sylvia said, muffled. 

“What is that?” Basira said, her voice cold and untrusting.

“It's Sylvia, she's a dog, she's not dangerous or anything. I'm going to take the bag off and put it down now,” Martin says, trying to sound soothing. “Can I do that without you knifing me?”

“Slowly,” Basira said with narrowed eyes.

Martin crouched down to let Sylvia out. She crawled out of the bag and shook herself vigorously, then sat, tail thumping on the floor. Martin stroked her ears, staying crouched on the ground next to her.

“Hi Basira.”

“So, what, the book made a talking dog? Or-” Basira looked at them closely. “This feels weird. Is she... your dog?”

“She's my soul, we think,” Martin said, feeling shy. “She used to be part of me, and now she's outside me.”

“And I'm vulnerable out here,”Sylvia added, “and it's really nice to talk to Martin, but I have to go away before-”

“-anyway,” Martin jumped in, and Sylvia huffed at him. “We were hoping you could call an ambulance if something bad happens. I didn't even read the book before, barely even touched it, but if the solution is anywhere it's probably in there.”

“You're not wrong,” Basira said. She smiled, and the sight was unfamiliar. “She suits you, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin and Sylvia said together.

“So, do you want to read in one of the interview rooms? I'll check in Jon's office, just to make sure he's not hunched over a pile of statements. I heard you're trying to avoid him.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, deciding to leave out the part about how he was really trying to avoid everyone.

“It's not my business, but-”

“No, it's not.” Martin said.

“-but he could use a friend, right now.”

“We're not friends. He's my old boss, and I don't want to talk to him.”

“All right,” Basira said, and her voice was cold again. She walked over to Jon's office.

“Be nice,” Sylvia said quietly, giving him a warning nip.

“I am nice. You know why I have to, Sylvia.”

“I know you're not sure you have to, and you're doing it anyway.” Sylvia said. “And it's making you mean. I hate it. Haven't we been lonely enough?”

“Well, after all that practice I'll be good at it, won't I.” Martin felt very tired. 

“Stupid bastard!” Basira's voice rang out from Jon's office.

Martin raced to the door of Jon's office.

“Is that a coffin?” The raw pine wood looked more solid than anything else in the office, as if it was bending light around itself.

“It's the coffin that ate Daisy. He went in to get her out of the Buried.” She waved a piece of paper. “He left a note dated two days ago, another bloody tape recorder, and this thing.”

The thing on the desk was curved, pinkish-white, and looked faintly sticky. Martin felt nauseous.

“It looks like a body part.”

On playing back the tape in the tape recorder, it turned out it was a rib, and Sylvia whimpered quietly as Martin retched.

“What can we do to get him out?”

“Nothing,” Basira said. Her face was grey and drawn. She closed her eyes. “Not a fucking thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was Sylvia who came up with the idea to use the tape recorders to try to call Jon back, an ancillary anchor to bolster the call of the rib. Basira and Martin went through the office, pulling them out of drawers and from behind filing cabinets like a grim Easter egg hunt. None of them commented on the fact that there were far more tape recorders hissing around the coffin than they had managed to find.

“That looks like enough,” Basira said, looking at the pile of them rambling on, Jon's voice echoing and overlapping. Martin tried not to listen to the words. “He'll follow his own voice back if he can, right?”

“Mmm.” Martin didn't think it would be the voice that Jon followed. He tried not to think about what would be calling Jon back, hiding from the very thought of the watching Eye lest it turn its gaze on him.

“Let's deal with your problem, then. All we can do is here is wait, and I hate sitting around hoping.” Hoping sounded like a curse in Basira's mouth.

“Oh,” Martin glanced at the clock. “Peter's going to want me upstairs soon.”

“Oh well, if Peter wants you.” Basira rolled her eyes. “What has that creep got on you?”

“It's not like that,” Martin said, looking around for the rucksack. “Sylvia, you're going to need to hide for a while.”

“What is it like?” Basira said, crossing her arms.

“It's fine.”

“It's not fine,” Sylvia said urgently. “Martin's really sad all the time and Peter-”

“Shut up, Sylvia! Get in the bag!” Martin pushed Sylvia into the rucksack. She whined and then moved around, getting comfortable, before falling quiet.

“We'll come down on my lunch break,” Martin said. “Let me know if Jon. If anything. You know.”

*

Peter appeared almost as soon as Martin sat down. He could feel Sylvia freeze in the rucksack behind the door, barely hidden.

“Gossiping downstairs, Martin?” Peter said sorrowfully. “You were doing so well.”

“Strictly business,” Martin said. “I left as soon as I could.”

“Next time there's any... business, it would be better if you sent one of your emails instead.”

“I will,” Martin lied. “Anything I can do for you, Peter?” He turned the computer on. “Or did you just want to chat?” he added, snidely.

“I'm a very patient man,” Peter said, his voice flat, “But perhaps you should not rely on my patience.” The room felt suddenly colder. “Keep your head down, Martin. Plenty of work up here.”  
Martin turned to look at the computer, letting his awareness fade, sinking into the loneliness that had become so familiar.

“Much better,” Peter said approvingly. “I'll leave you to it.”

Martin couldn't tell how much time passed before he felt a paw on his leg, a small spot of warmth breaking through the chill.

“It's lunchtime,” Sylvia whispered. “Martin, where did you go? I almost couldn't feel you.”

“Peter's been teaching me,” Martin said. “Let's head down.”

Sylvia jumped up into his lap, trying to burrow into him.

“It's cold without you,” she said miserably. “I hate it.”

*

Sylvia climbed into Martin's lap as he sat down to read the book. A tape recorder appeared, and Martin gave it a brief nod of acknowledgement.

Basira waited outside, watching through the window of the door. Martin did the usual statement introduction, and described where and when he'd found the book.

“I didn't read it any further, I'm not stupid, but clearly the one picture I saw was enough. Sylvia was there when I woke up the next morning. She's a small cocker spaniel, and remembers all the same things I do. We seem to be connected, not quite sure how to describe it.”

“But I'm much more sensible than Martin,” Sylvia interrupted. “Come on, read the book.”

“That's Sylvia,” Martin told the recorder, his voice fond. “Okay, reading the book now.”

Martin pulled on nitrile gloves – bit late for precautions now, but no harm in overkill – and opened it.

"An Examination of Daemons and Dust." Martin read aloud. "Being an investigation of the properties of Daemons with respect to anbaric particles, with some thoughts on Daemonic generation."

"Bit more old fashioned than we were expecting," said Sylvia. “The pages look modern, as does the binding.”

"All people have daemons, the form of the Daemon being a reflection of the soul of a person."

"That's me," Sylvia said.

"Looks like the first chapter is mostly about what different animal forms mean," Martin said, scanning through the pages quickly. "Some pictures, woodcuts of people with various animals – maybe it's a new printing of an older text? Let's see - chapter three is on separation and severing, let's try that."

The processes described in chapter three, the knives and the draining away of human spirit into blank obedience, left them both shocked and clinging to each other for comfort.

"We won't use any of those," Sylvia said quietly, nuzzling against him.“We really can't let Peter see this.”

"Definitely." Martin agreed, digging his fingers into her fur and holding on tight.

The final chapter is dryly titled "A hypothetical discursion on alternative modes of daemonic life" but is the most useful so far.

“It is theoretically possibly that there could be people in other dimensions than ours who are ensouled but have no daemons visible – who walk with their souls inside their bodies, leading lonely lives with only their only thoughts to commune with.” Martin stopped for a few seconds to gather himself, then read on with determination. “If only we could give such beings daemons, how happy they might be!”

The rest of the chapter turned into a discussion of plant daemons, animals with their own theoretical animal daemons, and other conjectures.

“Well, that's less than helpful,” Martin said. “Although it looks like we found the only recorded instance of a well-meaning Leitner.”

“Just as inconvenient as the other kind, if less deadly,” Sylvia said.

Martin looked at his watch. 

“Right. Statement ends, I guess. Better get back to it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Martin was sure the office was empty, no tell-tale chill in the air. Peter almost never came by twice in one day, though he had a knack for knowing what Martin had been up to. It was just Martin's rotten luck that Peter appeared when Sylvia had finally got sick of the rucksack after a couple of hours and wriggled out to lie on the floor.

“What's this, Martin? Not a pet, I hope.” Peter looked at Sylvia as if she was a stain on an expensive carpet.

“No, it's just – I had an accident with one of Jurgen Leitner's books. It summoned a dog that follows me around. I think it might be a Hunt experiment that failed,” Martin lied blithely. “It's obviously not very threatening.”

Sylvia growled.

“I asked Basira to look into ways of getting rid of it that won't kill me. Seems like that's a bit of a risk, from what the book says.”

“Dogs are very companionable animals, Martin,” Peter said disapprovingly.

“I'm more of a cat person, to be honest.”

“Perhaps I can help resolve this more quickly.” Peter walked over and grabbed Sylvia by the scruff of her neck. Martin froze. It felt worse than he'd imagined, icy fingers grasping at the vital heart of him.

“Peter, that hurts,” Martin gasped. “You're going to - damage me.” 

“Hmm. This is a odd one. I think you're right, it's got some of your essence in it – interesting vulnerability, that. If Basira can find some way to separate it from you, that could be very useful.” Sylvia struggled involuntarily, and Peter's grip tightened a little as he smiled. “A way to really speed up your development. This might turn out to be quite a happy accident, Martin.” Peter released Sylvia and she scrambled under Martin's desk. 

Martin steeled himself and pushed her away with his foot, the pain and rejection echoing and amplifying through their bond. 

“Glad to see you're not getting too close.” 

Martin nodded, shocked beyond speech. He gathered himself, trying to pull words together.

“She needs – bit more evidence. Can I go. Give...”

“Yes, all right. No chit-chat.”

*

When Martin arrived, there were two more people in the archive. He stopped to look at them unseen, new habits already strong.

Jon looked paler, scuffed all over, rents in his clothes, his beautiful hands bloody-nailed. Daisy looked like a miner's ghost, the dirt engrained in her skin so deeply that it seemed to be the core of her, any other colour a thin layer of paint over clay.

Basira told Jon he looked like shit and brought them both water, helping Daisy support the weight of the glass so she could drink. Martin was about to slip away unnoticed when Sylvia ran towards Jon and sniffed him.

“What – oh, hello,” Jon said, and reached down to pat her gingerly on the head. “Another dog get into the archives?”

Martin couldn't move, and Sylvia only stood there for a moment under Jon's hand before she ran back to Martin, hiding behind his legs. Martin felt a confused jumble of anger, longing, and fear. Months of absence and his daemon running to feel the touch of Jon's hand – yeah, he could figure out what that meant. The one thing he couldn't afford it to mean, if he wanted to keep everyone safe.

“Martin?” Jon tried to stand up, his legs shaking under him. Daisy looked like it was taking all her strength to sit upright.

“It's good that you're back,” Martin said. “I'd better get back – come on, Sylvia.”

“No,” said Sylvia stubbornly. “I'm not going back up there.”

“You have a talking dog,” Jon said, sounding confused.

“Oh, like that's the weirdest thing here,” Martin snapped, and Jon had the audacity to look hurt. “Sylvia, I'm going. If you think you can stay, go ahead.”

Sylvia growled at him, then went to curl up under his old desk. Even his own soul had abandoned him, Martin thought miserably, and he walked away.

He was out in the corridor before the pain hit. He fell to his knees, and he could hear Sylvia yelp and run to paw at the door, begging him to come back. He set his teeth, felt the sting of rejection still sharp and urging him on, and slipped into the loneliness he'd felt before. The yelp cut off, and Martin walked towards the stairs, moving like a ghost among the living.

*  
“Right, that's about as much as I can do here,” Basira said, putting away the surprisingly well-stocked first aid kit. She'd clearly been preparing for more disasters while Jon had been actively courting said disasters. “I think we're all due some time off and away from here.”

“Outside,” Daisy said slowly, as if trying to get used to the idea. “I forgot about outside. Would be nice.”

“Is Martin going to come back?” Sylvia said, from under Martin's old desk. Basira and Jon looked at each other doubtfully. There was a long silence. “Right.”

“You can come home with me, if you like. If he doesn't come back soon,” Jon offered awkwardly. The little dog had cried for a while after Martin had left the office, and still looked shaky. Once you accepted the talking, she seemed nice, if very anxious. Jon thought that perhaps she seemed to like him better than the others. She would drift over towards him when he wasn't looking, even if she wouldn't get within reach.

“You're staying with me,” Basira told Daisy, as calm and factual as a police report.

“Thanks,” Daisy said, her voice still rusty with disuse.

“The dog is Martin's soul.” Basira said, in the same tone, her hand entangled with Daisy's in a white knuckled grip. “He found a Leitner in a bookshop. Did a tape about it. Interview room one. Maybe listen to it before you take her home.”

“Did he-”

“He hasn't told me not to share it with you.” Basira shrugged. “I should get Daisy home. Can you deal with everything here?” She didn't sound like she particularly cared about the answer.

“Right. Then I'll look at that, ah, have a statement or two and head home after work. Might as well have someone in the office.” He glanced at Sylvia, who curled up even tighter under the desk.

“I'd say you need a rest, but you probably need a statement more.” 

Jon shifted uncomfortably but didn't bother to deny it. Basira helped Daisy to her feet, and slowly, with aching steps, they walked towards the door, Daisy's arm over Basira's shoulder.

*

The tape didn't actually explain much, though Jon did at least learn what Sylvia was and that he should probably avoid touching her. He kept well away from the book lying abandoned in interview room one, though he wrote a warning on a sheet of printer paper and taped it to the door just in case anyone else wandered by. Bit of a weird way to store a book, but he was too tired to think of any way to safely move it.

Jon recorded a couple of statements from the pile on his desk that his fingers twitched towards. Both turned out to be encounters with the Vast, one on the Chicago Space Needle and one on a poorly maintained roller coaster in Berkshire. Clearly the Eye was trying to ensure he had a balanced diet, something plummeting and agoraphobic to counterbalance the crushing claustrophobia of days in the Buried. Jon felt the itch of being watched, and tried not to return its gaze. He felt stronger afterwards, his mind clearer.

When it turned six o'clock Jon turned to Sylvia. She'd been staring at the doorway for the past hour, waiting.

“When does Martin usually leave?”

“Five o'clock. Well, five fifteen, really. But he might be working late. Could we give it five more minutes?”

“All right.” Jon was too exhausted to argue.

At ten past six, Sylvia huffed and got to her feet.

“Fine,” she said, sounding like she was trying not to cry. “Fine, let's get you home.”

Sylvia dogged Jon's heels all the way to his flat, although she studiously avoided touching him. She stayed quiet on the bus, and barely spoke on the walk. Jon didn't talk much himself, except to tell her when to get off the bus, or when they were turning.

“I'm going to heat up some soup. Do you eat?”

“No. Daemons don't need to eat, I think.”

“Do daemons... like to watch television?”

“Maybe, I haven't tried it yet. Martin likes it.”

“I suppose we'll just have to try it out.” Jon switched the TV on, changing the channel to BBC Two. 

“Huh. Martin never pictured you watching television. You seem like more of a reader.”

“I read, but I like television too. The noise makes the flat a bit less empty.”

Sylvia lay on the sofa, watching a re-run of 'Meet the Meerkats' without complaint, her head resting between her paws in doggy dejection. Jon probably wouldn't have bothered with the soup if she hadn't been there, but it felt important to at least pretend to be normal in front of Martin's daemon. He only realised how hungry he was halfway through eating it, and got up for some crackers and cheese. His hands still had dirt under their nails, but the cuts on his fingers had already healed into thin silvery seams that would be gone by morning.

“Can I sit on the sofa?”

“Sure.” Sylvia moved over. Jon kept a careful couple of feet between them.

“So, it sounds like you and Martin shouldn't be so far apart. According to the book.”

“Yeah. He isn't supposed to be able to leave me behind. I'm part of him. It really- it really hurt.”

“Is Martin okay?” Jon asked.

Sylvia laughed bitterly. 

“No, Martin is in no way okay. Martin lost his mum. Martin's been pushing everyone away for months. Martin left me behind after just a day and a half together. Martin is breaking his life into pieces and is desperate for no one to see it, because if someone sees it and does nothing he's going to be even more lost than he is now.”

“Can I help him?”

“I don't know.”

There was a long silence.

“You told him you trusted him, before. He's – he thinks he's doing the right thing, for you and everyone else. Maybe you're right to trust him and his plan. But I'm the part of him that is selfish and animal. I want to live, I want him to live, and I'm so angry.”

“I'm sorry.”

Jon fell asleep on the sofa next to Sylvia. When he woke, the tips of his fingers were brushing against her fur. He held as still as he could, barely breathing, until she rolled away.

*

Martin marched straight back to his office, letting the familiar numb blankness replace his pain. Everything was so much easier like this. This was the right thing to do. He could feel something inside himself screaming, but it was easy to ignore.

He sat in front of the computer and did the things on his to-do list, and then started to methodically clean out his inbox. 

He began to feel the edges of the numbness slip away around seven in the evening, when he became aware that the light was fading. His first thought was Sylvia – she hadn't come after him. Maybe she was trapped in the office. Jon hadn't either, but then, Martin had asked him not to. 

Maybe neither of them actually care that much about you, he thought. He didn't notice that the words in his head were in Peter's voice.

He packed up his bag and went down to the archives, the building empty and dark around him. The archives were deserted too.

“Sylvia?” He whispered into the room, before flicking the light on.

Nothing answered back. No red furry shape emerged from the shadows.

Well, that was it then. Sylvia had got tired of waiting and gone somewhere. The book had said daemons couldn't go far from their person, but perhaps she'd been just that desperate to get away from him. He remembered all at once the tearing agony of walking away from her, her anguished yelp. Maybe she'd been hurt, maybe he'd injured her and she was in here somewhere and couldn't reply. He switched all the lights on and looked for her more thoroughly.

The only new thing in the archives was a label on the door on interview room one.

“DO NOT ENTER. Dangerous book inside. The Archivist.”

Clearly Sylvia was either out on the streets of London alone, or Basira or Jon had taken her home. Probably Jon. Whatever had happened to him while he'd been dead, Jon seemed to like Martin a lot more these days. It was typical really – after years of distance and prickliness, just when Martin needed Jon to ignore him, Jon suddenly decided that he wanted them to spend time together. 

He couldn't go to Jon's flat. Couldn't call him. Peter would be on the look out now, after warning Martin to stay away from the archives. Peter needed Martin alive, but there were so many ways short of death for him to make Martin suffer for disobedience.

Martin went home alone, ate a pizza for one, and went to bed. He didn't bother to stop himself crying, but it all felt a little like it was happening to someone else.


	5. Chapter 5

When Jon got to the archives the next morning, Martin was there waiting for him.

“I haven't got much time,” Martin said. 

“I'm sorry about last night, we didn't think you were coming back-”

“I did. A bit later in the evening than expected, so I understand why you left. I'm sorry I left you behind,” he told Sylvia, who looked away. Her fur was speckled with new white hairs, a little hoar of frost around the muzzle.

“Jon, I need your help. I need to find a way to put Sylvia back, make her part of me again. Peter found her yesterday and-” Martin stopped, swallowed down his fear, and went on. “Peter found out what she is, sort of, and I'm not sure what he's going to do.”

“It'll be bad.” Sylvia said. She edged a little closer to Martin. “I'm sorry I didn't go with you, but I was scared, and then you did something horrible.” She whined a little. “It felt like losing you, like I couldn't find you – it hurt a lot.”

“I'm sorry.” Martin crouched down and held out his hand. Sylvia licked it. Martin stroked her head, feeling some battered part of himself slip back into alignment – still bruised, but no longer dislocated. He sat on the floor and let her climb onto his lap, trying to feel close to her again.

“Of course I'll help, Martin,” Jon said, looking agitated. “I'll do anything I can.”

“Basira's busy with Daisy, so it's you or no one,” Martin said, with an attempt at lightness.

“Yes,” Jon said, trying to joke back. “Unlucky for you.”

“Thanks. Best if Sylvia stays down here.” He knelt on the floor and hugged her as hard as he could, feeling the quick rise and fall of her ribs as she tried not to cry. “I won't let him get you.”

“It's not me I'm worried about,” Sylvia said. “Don't let him get you.” 

“Right. Okay. I'll see you after work.”

Martin turned and went out quickly, not looking back. 

Sylvia let out a long sigh. 

“Right. Let's get to it.”

*

Jon looked the book over, turning the pages with the rubber end of a pencil. 

“The effect seems likely to be touch-related rather than proximity, given we haven't had anyone else come in complaining about mysteriously appearing dogs.”

“It's not just dogs.” Sylvia looked offended. “Dogs are for nice, loyal people who care about others and aren't bossy.”

“People who are followers?” Jon said, trying to tease her. Sylvia growled at him playfully.

“Better than that giant bird of yours.”

“Bird?” 

“Yeah, I can sort of see what yours would be. Big, scruffy raven.”

“A carrion bird. Well, that's disturbingly telling. I shall take care not to summon him.” Jon blinked. “Him. Ah.”

“He's already part of you.” Sylvia tilted her head. “Perhaps you can even know his name if you think about it.”

“I'm rather surprised I still have a soul to call on, given my recent resurrection and my current state.”

“Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Daemons aren't souls, or humanity, or whatever you think you've lost. They're the... the wanting part of you. The bit that wants to run around in the moonlight, or lie on the sofa on a hot day and sleep the afternoon away, or hold hands with someone. You're the part that says you have to go to bed because you have work tomorrow, or mow the lawn when it's sunny. The planning part, the consequences part.”

“The intelligent part.”

“Is it intelligent not to hold hands with someone you love because you're worried about what will happen afterwards? Not everything fun is bad for you.”

“Not everything fun is a good idea,” Jon said, feeling hunger and guilt mix together inside him. He needed a statement, the way he used to need cigarettes.

Sylvia yawned.

“Is there anything in there about how to put me back yet?”

“I'm not sure. Nothing directly, certainly. Perhaps...” Jon stared at the picture on the open page; a man bearing a snake across his shoulders, swirling lines surrounding them both. He traced the curves with the pencil he was holding, not touching the paper. “Ask me some questions about it.”

“How did I get pulled out of Martin?”

“You're an image refracted across a void.” Jon said, the words coming from beyond his awareness. “A picture of what another world would look like. An open window.”

“You are a might-have-been,” a harsh voice croaked. “As am I.”

“Ah,” Jon said, looking at the raven that had appeared on the table, next to the book. “Oh dear.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Hello, Jon,” said the raven, in ominous tones. “I am Custos. I have come from beyond this plane to aid you.”

“Hello, Custard,” said Sylvia. 

The raven rattled his feathers irritably. Jon reached out to stroke them down. Custos looked as if he had once been sleek, but now bore a dusty, ill-treated appearance, feathers askew and legs pitted with scars.

“You are not as funny as you think you are,” Custos told Sylvia petulantly. 

“We could use some help,” Jon told the raven. “Sylvia needs to go back into Martin.”

“Are you planning to send me back too? I was rather hoping I could ask you a question first.” Custos spread his bedraggled wings dramatically. “What in hell's name are you doing to me, Jonathan Sims?”

Jon looked to Sylvia for help.

“Don't mind me!” she said brightly, sitting neatly on the floor. “Go on and have a fight, and then maybe we can get back to saving my life.” 

“I didn't know dogs were so passive-aggressive,” Custos said primly.

“I didn't know you could fit a stick up a raven's arse, but here we are.”

Jon failed to adequately stifle a laugh.

“I'm yours, idiot,” Custos reached out a wing and smacked him round the head. “You're supposed to be on my side!”

“Fine. How exactly have I managed to, ah, ruffle your feathers?”

Sylvia openly snickered.

“You damaged me!” Custos shouted, hopping and flapping across the table. “You do horrible things to yourself! You shook hands with The Devouring Flame! You let a monster of The Tortured Meat take out your rib! You dragged us underground into That Which Crushes!”

“That was pretty stupid of him,” Sylvia agreed.

“It feels like you hate us both.” Custos said more calmly, stopping in front of Jon. “And whatever you think you've done to merit such punishment, I don't deserve it.” He hunched over, pulling his head down between his shoulders and staring at Jon with fierce, keen eyes. “We have not been perfect, but we do not deserve to suffer like this.”

Jon slowly extended his burn-scarred hand and ran one finger lightly across the charred feathers on Custos' wing. 

“I'm sorry that I hurt you,” he said. “I thought it was just me, and it seemed worth it, at the time.”

“Just... stop doing it, please?” Custos shook his feathers out. “Very well. Martin needs our help. Let's actually read the book, for a start.”

After half an hour of reading and taking notes Jon looked up to see Custos grooming Sylvia's belly fur while she lay on her back. He must have made some noise, because Custos stopped and hopped away, and Sylvia twisted to look up at him.

“Having fun?” Jon asked.

“I've had a stressful day!” Sylvia said defensively.

“Have you found anything, Jon?” Custos asked aridly.

“Not yet.”

“Than might I suggest you apply yourself to reading once more?”

“Of course. Don't let me interrupt your little... spa session.”

“You should get Martin a spa day,”Sylvia said. “He needs it. You could get one together!”

“Okay, back to reading,” Jon said loudly. 

“He's rather self-conscious about taking his shirt off,” Custos whispered to Sylvia. 

“What happened to 'I'm yours, you should be on my side'?” snapped Jon, blushing. Custos flew up to his shoulder and started grooming his hair. It was more soothing than Jon would have expected.

“I am on your side.” Custos said, awkward but sincere.

There was a knock on the door.

“Jon?” Basira's voice came through the door. “You in there? Are you recording something?”

“Basira – come in, no, just reading Martin's book.”

Basira opened to door and stared at the large raven on Jon's shoulder.

“You fucking didn't,” she said, sounding resigned. “I can't leave you unsupervised for five minutes, can I.”

“Is Daisy-”

“Yeah, she's okay. Getting a short hospital stay to deal with the dehydration and muscle wasting. Thank fuck we didn't actually declare her legally dead.”

“Indeed. Oh, Martin rather urgently needs to... reabsorb? Internalise? Anyway, Sylvia needs to go back where she came from. Apparently Lukas has been making threats.”

“Right. Any ideas?”

“Well, I read some of the book, and now Custos is here.”

Basira looked at him. Jon squirmed in his seat.

“Was that actually an idea, or just you poking around stuff you don't understand?”

“...poking. But now I can read the book in more detail, since it's already done its work!”

“Right,” Basira said again. “Okay. I'll go and research everything else we have available about external soul manifestations, shall I?”

“Yes, please,” Jon said meekly, for once able to spot and avoid a losing battle in advance.


	7. Chapter 7

Martin came down at the end of the day to find Basira surrounded by files and books.

“Hey there, ghost boy. Three times in a week you've graced our humble archives. This has to be some kind of record.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Find anything?”

“Not yet. Jon and the others are through there reading.”

Martin opened the door to interview room one and flinched back at the massive expanse of black wings extending over Jon's shoulders. Jon turned to look at him and the wings folded down and resolved into one dishevelled-looking raven, perched on Jon's shoulder. Sylvia was curled up in one corner, sleeping a deep and exhausted sleep.

“Oh, not you too,” Martin said, dismayed.

“Oh, I'm fine – I'm actually quite enjoying having Custos here,” Jon said, stroking Custos's head feathers. Custos gave a croak of approval.

“Have you found anything?”

“A good deal about daemons, but I'm still trying to unpick the trigger point for the transformation, the 'opening of the window' as it were. There's a good deal in here about Dust – capital D – as some sort of fundamental particle crucial to the whole 'daemon' phenomenon. Author name is listed as Parry – no initial – and there's obviously no ISBN or any other information to trace, though Basira is trying.”

Martin was trying to pay attention, but seeing Jon so comfortable with his daemon was odd. It made him feel jealous, in a superficial way that wasn't real jealousy. It felt more like anger, deep and familiar, like something he'd been trying hard to avoid feeling because if he let it all free he might do something irrevocable and disastrous.

Martin took a long, slow breath. Sylvia gave a tiny bark in her sleep as if chasing something. 

“Right. So, no solution as such, then.”

“Not yet,” Jon said, apologetically. “I'll keep trying, and Custos appears to have more insight into the Beholding than I do, so we may be able to cheat a little.”

“The Beholding?”

“Since I've come back, I've sometimes caught myself knowing things I shouldn't know, that I can't possibly know. Terrible things, usually. Custos seems to have more of a handle on making it... deliberate.”

“Hmm,” Martin said, trying not to sound too judgmental.

“The book appears to have some affiliation with the Spiral, he thinks.”

“Well, that's... something, I suppose.”

Jon looked a little bit like a kicked puppy. Martin bowed to the inevitable guilt and tried to be less angry.

“Thank you Jon, I appreciate it. And Custos, thank you too. I'm just worried.”

“Of course,” Custos said gravely, his voice like that of a particularly sepulchral grave-digger. “Your concerns are ours, Martin.”

“I'd better get her home,” Martin said, looking at Sylvia. “It's been a tough few days.”

“Custos gave her a belly rub,” Jon blurted out. “And she calls him Custard.”

Martin laughed, a short astonished 'Hah!' that felt bizarrely unfamiliar in his throat. 

“No, really!” Jon said, smiling, while Custos hopped from foot to foot in apparent agitation. “They suggested we both have a spa day. Apparently belly rubs are equivalent to a nice massage.”

“It was a practical suggestion,” Custos said forbiddingly. “For stress.”

“Doesn't really work for my whole... deal, now,” Martin said awkwardly. “Getting touched by people and so on. You should try it though, I hear they're nice.” He turned away and lifted Sylvia up in his arms, waking her, She nuzzled against his chest.

“Home time,” Martin told her softly. “You okay to go in the bag? Just for the walk.”

“I don't like the bag,” Sylvia said plaintively, still half-asleep.

“I know,” Martin said, trying to keep his voice soothing. “Me neither, but-”

“Let me call you a taxi?” Jon offered. “It's shorter that way, and you could have her on your lap.”

“No, thanks,” Martin said absently. “I'll walk, it's fine.”

“She's not the only one who's had a tough time,” Jon said, nervously stroking his own wrist. “You could call it 'avoiding crowds' if you have to justify it, later.” 

Martin looked at him sharply, then sighed. 

“Yeah. Okay. I'll call the taxi, though. Just in case I have to justify it later.”

“Right,” Jon said, sounding sad. Custos let out a harsh croak.

*

When they got home Martin sat down slowly and carefully on the sofa, Sylvia still in his arms. He stroked her fur, paying particular attention to the soft parts around her ears, as she drifted in and out of sleep.

“Poor dog,” he said gently. “It's been a bad time for you, hasn't it. You come out into the world and it's all hard and lonely for you. I'm sorry.”

“For us,” Sylvia said, sleepy. “Lonely for us.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. His earlier anger had receded, leaving him hollow. “I'll eat something quick and then we'll go to bed, yeah? Nice long sleep.”

It helped, having Sylvia next to him. Martin slept with one hand on her ribcage, lulled by the reassuring rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.


	8. Chapter 8

Jon woke at 4am, swimming up out of a thick, oily soup of other people's fears. He broke into consciousness with an exhale, like a dolphin coming up for air.

“Good morning,” said a deep, eerie voice from the darkness, invisible in the black of night.

Jon screamed and slapped frantically at the light switch by his bed. The light illuminated a shadowed mass of feathers at the end of his bed, out of which one beady black eye peered.

Custos blinked at him. Jon remembered the events of the day before. This was part of him, in the shape of a bird.

“Sorry,” Jon said. “That was, ah, quite surprising.”

Custos flew over and pushed himself under Jon's arm, seeking comfort. Jon held him close, using his free hand to gently groom some errant feathers into place.

“Do you have the dreams too?”

“Yes. I go where you go. I eat the same terror you eat.”

“The old statements don't feel like enough, do they.” Jon could feel the craving in his belly, waiting for any excuse.

“No, they're too dry. I want fresh ones. Straight from the the victim.” Custos sounded as though he relished the thought, even as it sickened them both. 

“We shouldn't.”

Jon let go of Custos, and the raven flapped up to perch on his headboard.

“It doesn't change what we both want. We don't kill anyone, we don't injure them. Not physically. And what are a few bad dreams? Everyone has bad dreams!”

Jon took a long, shaky breath.

“The others will want to kill me.”

“Not Martin. Martin would forgive you.”

“Then he likes me too much to have any sense,” Jon said harshly. “Basira will, and I can't even tell her she's wrong. Melanie barely needs the excuse. And I don't know what Daisy will be once she's recovered, but.” He touched the scar of Daisy's knife across his throat. “It's hardly a stretch.”

“It doesn't change what we want,” Custos said again, hunched over like a carrion crow. “We want to know what's out there. We need it to be strong enough. We could go for a walk right now, you and I, and maybe we'll run into someone...”

Hearing the justifications coming out of someone else's mouth felt like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face. 

He could see all the little steps he'd taken down the road to hell, from accident, to self-preservation, to simply not caring. That way was Gertrude, justifying any means for her ends. That way lay Helen and her yellow doors, using people as fuel, as pawns, as prey. 

“No,” Jon said, closing his eyes. “We'll record some tomorrow. At the institute. Maybe ask people who come in if we can... No. No.”

Custos glared at him.

“You can't fight it forever. We want it.”

“I can fight it tonight,” Jon said savagely, and lay back down. He switched the light off and pulled up the covers, and felt Custos watch him in the dark. He could tell neither of them was going to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Jon looked haggard, he could tell even without looking in a mirror. Martin had winced when he'd come down to leave Sylvia in the archives for the day.

“You all right?”

“No. Yes, I'm fine, just not getting much sleep.”

Martin looked concerned. Jon almost though he was about offer to make Jon a cup of tea, but the moment passed and Martin left. Sylvia looked at him with big hangdog eyes.

“You should nap. You'll make Martin worried.”

“Maybe later,” Jon said. “Statement first.” Custos rustled discontented beside him.

Daisy and Basira came in together while he was rifling through files, looking for something juicy. He'd found a couple that felt good, the tinge of desperation coming off them more acute.

“Sims,” Daisy said quietly. “How are you doing?”

“I'm fine,” Jon said, and it felt less like a lie this time. “How are you? Can I get you anything?”

Daisy smiled at him.

“I'm all right, thanks.”

“I though Daisy could hang around here for a bit. I have an appointment.”

“I don't really like being alone these days,” Daisy added, and Basira glanced at her with undisguised concern for a moment before she controlled her expression.

“Of course,” Jon said. “Happy to have the company. What time is your appointment with Jonah?”

Everyone froze.

“Who are you going to see, Basira?” Jon asked deliberately, enunciating each word. 

“I have an appointment to see Elias in prison, I've been getting intelligence from him about upcoming rituals and he's been messing me around.” She shook her head. “Fuck, that's weird. Don't do that.”

Jon held out his arm, and Custos flew up to perch on his arm. He looked larger than he had a few moments before.

“Who is Elias Bouchard?” he asked Custos, and the air tingled with static and the taste of metal.

“The man we know as Elias Bouchard is the latest incarnation of Jonah Magnus,” Custos said, with the unmistakable ring of truth.

“Right,” Basira said, sounding stunned. “Okay. We need to. I need to. This may require a change of plans.”

“Will he know that we know?” Daisy asked, looking at Custos.

“Yes,” Custos said. “As soon as he looks at us.”

Jon swayed, feeling lightheaded.

“I think I need to sit down,” he said, and crumpled onto the floor. 

*

Peter appeared – literally appeared, condensing in the corner of the room – sometime around eleven.

“Where's the dog?”

“We got it partially separated from me already, so I'm keeping it penned up elsewhere.” Martin said, trying to sound bored. “Basira's just working on the last bit, should be back to normal soon.”

“Hm,” Peter said, looking disappointed. “Well, I'm glad it's not here distracting you.”

Martin reached for the distant, uncaring place inside himself, the one where nothing hurt and everything ached. Something to show Peter, to keep him off the scent.

“Was there something you wanted?” His voice sounded remote even in his own ears.

“Very good,” Peter said. “I do actually want you to do some work on the Institute finances, but as a simultaneous exercise – try and stay where you are for a while. Get comfortable. I'll send you the files by the e-mail.”

Martin forgot to go down and check on Sylvia at lunchtime. He forgot to have lunch all together.

*

Jon regained consciousness with his hands shaking.

“Here,” Daisy said, pushing a few sheets of paper into his hands. “Just read it, don't try to get up.”

Jon sounded out the first few words more by instinct than reading, his vision blotched with starbursts. As he read on his sight settled down, and the tale of the hunt through the jungle satisfied him. Like dry bread when he really wanted a steak, but it was something.

“Better now?” Daisy said, one hand on his shoulder as she knelt beside him.

“Yes,” Jon said. He put his hand on hers, a brief, grateful touch. “Thank you.”

“Basira's got a plan. She said she's going to get some weapons. Honestly, I think that might be the extent of the plan, other than not going to see Elias - to see Jonah - any more. He might still have information, but he's lied about one too many things to be useful to us now.”

“We need to know more right now,” Jon said. “I need fuel, I need to be able to know more. I – Daisy, I took a live statement. Three. I didn't– no one's dead, or injured or anything, but the live ones, they work better. They're stronger.”

“Not worth it, Jon,” Daisy said gently. “I can tell how much you want one, but we're not hurting anyone to save our own skins. That's not who you are.”

“You did it,” Jon said accusingly. "You hurt people to save others. To save Basira. It's the same thing."

“I did. That's why I know it's not worth it.” Daisy looked calmly back at him, and Jon groaned.

“Christ. Okay.”

“Glad you told me, Jon,” Daisy said. “It's a good sign. Come on, we'll get you another paper one.”


	10. Chapter 10

Martin looked like a ghost when he came to the archives late that evening, melancholy and almost transparent around the edges. Custos was clowning around with Sylvia, repeatedly flapping up to land on her back and falling off, rolling onto the ground in an ungainly tumble that made Sylvia giggle. 

“Glad you're having fun,” Martin said, unsmiling. “Come on. Home.”

“Five more minutes?” Sylvia pleaded. “He's almost got it. And Jon waited behind for you, he's got something important to tell you.” She ran over and jumped up, and Martin caught her in his arms by reflex. She licked his cheek and a little colour leached back into Martin's face.

“What exactly is Custos trying to do?”

“Ride on her back,” Custos said.

“Custard is getting too lazy to fly,” Sylvia said smugly. Martin smiled at the offended gape of Custos's beak.

“If I'm Custard then you're a- a syllabub!” Custos said triumphantly.

Martin and Sylvia looked blankly at him.

“Syllable?” Martin tentatively corrected after a long pause.

“No, it's a dessert,” Custos insisted. “It's a real thing!”

“All right, Custard. Whatever you like,” Sylvia said fondly. “I'm Sillabib.”

“Syllabub! Oh, what's the point if you just agree to it,” Custos said sulkily.

“Martin!” Jon said, emerging from his office. He looked a little manic around the edges, but healthier than he had that morning. “Good to see you. It's been quite a day.”

“Did you find something that would help with Sylvia?” Martin put her down gently, and she went back to letting Custos try to stay steady on her back.

“Oh. No, sorry. But we found out that Elias isn't Elias – he's Jonah Magnus!”

Martin waited for more information. Jon looked as if he'd expected more of a reaction.

“Okay,” Martin said. “So he's about 200 years old and worships the Eye, rather than 50-whatever and worships the Eye. What of it?”

“It means he's been manipulating us even more than we thought, and he's probably still doing it from prison. It means he's more powerful than he's been letting on. And it means whatever he's got going on with Peter, we don't understand it enough for even a hope of safety.”

“This doesn't change anything.”

Jon looked pleadingly at Martin.

“We can't keep playing their game. Martin, I don't know how to convince you.” He looked away and then back, lowering his voice and leaning towards Martin. “The other day, part of your soul followed me home. If that means anything at all, please listen to me. ”

“It means what it's always meant,” Martin said, resigned. He was dully aware that in other circumstances, he would feel embarrassed. “My feelings for you haven't changed. They just don't matter, not against what the Extinction could mean for the world.”

“They matter to me. You matter to me.”

“I have to see this through.”

“Why? Because you need to find out if the Extinction is real? Ask me! I probably have the answers in here somewhere! If you want to play the hero, or stop an apocalypse I will be right by your side. But don't destroy yourself just to serve some notion of the greater good.”

“I am doing this to save you!” 

“I don't want you to!”

“I don't care,” Martin said with finality, and walked away. Sylvia followed obediently at his heels, though she looked back at Custos as they left.

“You're starving,” Sylvia said. “Let's get you some food.”

*

“Well, you fucked that up,” Custos said. 

“I know,” Jon said. He rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly tired. “Any more constructive feedback?”

“You weren't wrong?” Custos offered.

“Hah. Surprisingly, that doesn't make me feel better. God, poor Martin. He looked-”

“Indeed,” Custos agreed. “Let's go home and sleep. You can fix it tomorrow.” 

“But Elias-” 

“We will be no better at countering whatever his next move will be if we attempt to do so on no sleep.” He clacked his beak thoughtfully. “Unless, perhaps, we go out for a walk...”

“No. Bad bird.”

“I can't help how we're made!”

“Or how others have made us,” Jon said, musing. “I think... I might need to review some old tapes.”


	11. Chapter 11

When Martin went down to the archives the next morning, Peter was sitting at his old desk. Martin took a moment to look at him, unseen. How many people had Peter fed to his patron, over the years? 

“I had a phone call last night,” Peter said conversationally. “You know how much I hate phone calls, but I hated this one more than usual. Elias tells me you've been spending a lot more time down here than you bothered to mention.”

“It's not actually your business,” Martin said, edging towards the door. “Or Elias's, come to that – I know he's your friend,” Martin said as nastily as he could manage, and Peter wrinkled his nose in distaste, “but he's a creepy little prick.”

Peter loomed like an iceberg as he rose from his chair.

“Martin, you've been... fraternising.” Peter spat the word out as if it was poisonous – which, to be fair, it probably was. “You've lost nearly everything we've worked for! Have you completely given up on saving your friends, after all you've achieved already?”

“Leave them alone!” Martin said, his voice trembling. Sylvia snarled.

“I will. But only if you let me help you get back on track. All I need is that dog of yours, and you'll be back to where you were – better than that, even. Closer to the power we need.”

Martin hesitated. Sylvia looked up at him, horrified, and ran under his desk.

“Well?” Peter watched him, his face hungry. “The world is at stake, Martin. I'll even throw in your friends for free.”

Martin looked at the greed in his eyes, and took a deep breath. Time to choose, finally.

“You were more convincing when you were subtle about it, you know. No, you can't have her. You can't have me. And if you hurt my friends, I'll- I'll find some way to hurt you back.”

Peter made a disgusted sound, and turned towards where Sylvia was hidden.

“It wasn't actually a choice. You might have felt less pain if you'd just agreed to it.”

Martin grabbed a stapler from the desk next to him and hit Peter as hard as he could.

“Sylvia, run!”

Peter swore and turned round, and the stapler dropped from Martin's hand, fog curling thickly around him.

*

Peter squatted down to pull Sylvia out from behind the filing cabinet where she was hiding. She bit him, trying to get away, but his fingers dug into the nape of her neck and dragged her out.

“Stupid dog,” Peter said.

“Help!” Sylvia screamed.

Peter chuckled. 

“Martin's gone away for a little bit. Let's see what we can do about you.”

There was a crashing sound outside. Jon ran into the room, Custos flapping in his wake.

“Get away from her,” Jon said, enraged. 

“Hello, Archivist,” said Peter warily.

“Let them go. Now.”

“Martin's mine,” Peter said petulantly. 

“I see you, Peter Lukas,” Jon said, and the sound of static filled the air as the room warped around them. “I see everything.”

Custos grew into something huge and shadowy, the black of his wings an inky darkness that stretched from wall to wall, filled with unseen eyes whose gaze was a palpable weight.

“We see you, Peter Lukas,” Custos said, and the words held the weight of a death sentence. “We see your childhood of solitude, your indoctrination, your malice and your lies. We see your defeats and your petty wagers. Make your statement, or die.”

“No. No, this isn't supposed to happen! Elias said you weren't strong enough!”

“Speak!”

“Elias said you weren't ready yet,” Peter gritted out, as if every word pulled from him was a tooth. “That he had to mark you - with every fear first. You are. His ritual.” Peter stopped speaking and screamed, trying to resist. 

“More,” Jon said, his voice inhuman.

Peter began to disintegrate, shredding at the edges as if being stripped away by a knife-like wind. Custos did not close his wings until there was nothing left. The closing of them left him raven-sized again, something infinite folded up into a finite, feathery shape.

Sylvia whimpered.

“Oh God, are you all right?” Jon said. Custos started checking her over.

“Get Martin back,” she said, between short panting breaths. “He's so far...”

“He's right there,” Jon said stupidly. Martin was sitting in a chair, slow tears rolling down his impassive face.

“Peter took him,” she said.

Jon went over and touched Martin's hand. His skin was cold. Jon held Martin's hand between his own, trying to bring warmth back into it.

“Sylvia needs you back, Martin. Where are you, where did you go?” 

Jon could feel a chill, the cloudy day that lay through some hole in reality, where Martin was getting cold.

“Oh, this is a really bad idea,” he muttered, kneeling in from of Martin. “Come on, you two.” Custos landed on his shoulder, and Sylvia crawled over, shaking, to slump against his side. He wrapped his arms around Martin, closed his eyes, and followed the path he could feel.


	12. Chapter 12

The sea was endless, low and grey, and the dim light through the clouds came from no sun or moon or stars. The black, wet sand of the beach crunched beneath Jon's shoes. There were no shells, no pieces of driftwood, no sign that there had ever been another living being in this world. The fog avoided him, piling up at the edges of some unseen boundary.

Sylvia at least seemed to be more like herself in this shadow world. She cast about along the shore for a scent, then looked back at Jon. 

“It's like he's everywhere here. I can't find a direction.”

Custos flew up, and Jon had a brief doubled vision of the beach from above. Far off, just a glimpse through the fog, there was a figure sitting on the sand. Jon began to walk towards it. Sylvia darted ahead and then circled back to him, over, and over, as if trying to close the distance. Custos soared overhead, no painful tug as he went well beyond their usual range.

“Find him if you can,” Jon shouted, and Custos dipped a wing in acknowledgement and vanished into the mist.

*

Custos landed and hopped sideways towards Martin. Martin had been sitting with his arms wrapped round his legs and his head on his knees, though at the sound of Custos landing he raised his head. He was soaked to the skin, his curling hair plastered down flat against his scalp.

“I'm here,” Custos said. 

“I'm sorry,” Martin said, his voice thin and faded. “I know you don't want to be here. Who would?”

“Jon's coming for you.”

“I wish he wasn't. He'll get stuck here with me, and then I'll feel guilty. He'll hate me.”

“We love you.”

“No, you don't. You're saying that to be kind, but it's not kind to lie.”

“Is this the garbage Peter's been telling you? I'm glad we killed him. I hope it hurt.”

“Peter... He was going to take Sylvia.”

“He was trying to hurt you, Martin. All this, this utter nonsense about needing to be alone is him, it's all him. You're not like that, you're friendly and kind and people love you and you love them, even when they don't deserve it.”

“I loved Jon. I wanted him to be safe and now he's not safe at all.”

“He loves you back. Why would he want to be safe and without you? Would you want to be safe without him?”

“I should have gone away. I should go away...” Custos started to see the beach through Martin, the greyness of his skin giving way to translucence.

“No, no! You have to stay!” Custos walked over and flapped up onto Martin's knees, burrowing into his lap. “Come on, hug me! he said, crying. “I'm a stupid, wet bag of feathers, I'm getting cold. Hold on to me!”

“Martin!” Jon's voice sounded in the distance. 

*

“Martin! I'm here, we came for you.” Jon said, falling to his knees on the sand in front of Martin. Custos scrambled in an ungainly fashion to get out of Martin's lap and over to Jon.

Sylvia barked and licked Martin's face, and he gently pushed her away. 

“You're not real,” Martin said, his voice remote. “Peter took you.” 

“He took you!” Sylvia howled raggedly. “I'm real, I'm yours.”

“He's so cold,” Custos said wretchedly. “And he keeps fading round the edges-”

“Martin, we thought we'd lost you,” Jon said. “Don't go, please don't go.”

“You should all leave,” Martin said. “I belong here, now.” 

“Come with me,” Jon said urgently. “We need you. I need you.”

“You don't need me. Everyone's alone, but we all survive.”

“I don't want to just survive,” Jon said. “Look at me, Martin – tell me what you see.”

“I see you, Jon,” Martin said dully. Then some animating spark came back into his expression. “I see you.” He started crying, his tears splashing onto the black sand. Jon wrapped his arms around Martin, holding as tight as he could.

“I was on my own, I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore.” 

“Never again,” Sylvia said. “You idiot, I was so scared.”

“Let's go home,” Custos said. “Hold tight-”

*

Martin's eyelashes fluttered against Jon's neck as they came back to themselves, still holding each other. They were dry, except for Martin's tears, but both their daemons were soaked through. Sylvia got to her feet and stepped away to shake the water from her fur, while Custos groomed his damp feathers into something approaching neatness.

“That hurt,” Martin said breathlessly.

“Are you okay?” Jon asked anxiously, pulling back a little.

“No, yeah, it's actually... good? Like a limb waking up. Prickly.”

Jon held Martin's hands, feeling the warmth and life in them with a deep and painful gratitude.

“Thanks. For finding me,” Martin said shyly.

“Just so you know,” Jon said, his voice unsteady, “I would follow you anywhere to get you back. Anywhere.” He pressed a clumsy kiss to Martin's knuckles.

“Oh,” Martin breathed. He freed one hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Me too. You, too.”


	13. Chapter 13

They never discussed leaving the archives that night. Jon never even seemed to consider it, and Martin was too scared to say anything. It was against all sense to think that Jon would send him home alone – at the very least Sylvia would be with him, curled up close to him the way she had been ever since their return. Still, the fear gnawed at him. The image of Jon telling him to go, of Sylvia not following him out, was horribly real. The Lonely couldn't be left behind in a night. It was possible Martin would always have those scars on his soul, the white hairs speckling Sylvia's fur.

“The camp bed's a bit small for two,” Jon said. “We could take turns, or-”

Martin shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Sylvia started pulling the bedding off the cot onto the floor.

“Ah. Yes, good idea.” Jon looked around the office for more things they could use as bedding, stealing coats from the backs of chairs and cushions from the single battered armchair.

The pile they ended up making on the floor was less than comfortable, but being surrounded by three other sets of breathing quieted the terror inside Martin enough for him to fall asleep.

*

Jon stared open-eyed into the night. Martin was sleeping the unmoving sleep of the exhausted beside him. Martin had spent months playing spy and ingénue and potential convert in front of an exacting audience, knowing any false note in his act would be paid for in blood, and now he trusted Jon enough to fall asleep in his arms. Jon had criminally underestimated Martin. 

Jon had underestimated Lukas, too. The knowledge that had poured into his mind had shown him some hints of the man's alliance with Elias, and that final scrap of information ripped from Peter's unwilling mouth kept wreathing through his mind like a snake.

A ritual, marking Jon with the fears, for something. Bringing the Eye to this world... or more than the Eye. 

Custos stared at him from his perch on the back of a chair.

“We need to know,” Custos whispered. 

When good sense and the desire of his soul joined together, Jon couldn't refuse. He gently disengaged from Martin, and then hesitated.

“We shouldn't leave him alone,” Jon whispered.

“We won't be far,” Custos whispered impatiently. “He'll find us.”

“No,” Jon said, in a normal voice. “He shouldn't have to look.”

Martin rolled over, frowning.

“Jon?”

“I'm here,” Jon said, holding Martin's hand. “I have to go look something up, but I'll be right outside, okay? If you wake up I'll come right back. You're not alone.”

“Okay. You'll be there?”

Jon took off his jumper and draped it over Martin.

“Can't go outside without my jumper, and you've got my jumper now.”

“Okay,” Martin said, accepting the logic he was too tired to question. He fell asleep again between one breath and the next, and Jon's heart did something painful, just looking at him.

“Kiss him goodnight,” Custos prompted, and Jon took a moment to kiss Martin on the cheek. Then he stood up and walked into the archives, not noticing that the lights above him were turning themselves on as he walked unerringly from file to file among the shelves.

*

Jon read through the night, though he only noticed he had done so when Basira and Daisy arrived the next morning. He felt... light. Balanced. Somewhere around the tenth statement, he'd stopped feeling tired. At number twenty, he'd stopped feeling hungry. Custos stared unblinking around the room, looking as if he could see through walls. Perhaps he could, Jon thought.

“I have some things to tell you,” Jon said, without preamble. “Peter's dead, I'm a ritual, Jonah's planning something. He knows we know but he can't see this, now – he's having breakfast.”

“I'm not sure I want to,” Basira said. “You look like you're high. Peter's dead?”

“I did some investigating,” Jon said, and giggled. He didn't stop laughing for quite a while, because it was, after all, horribly, morbidly funny. Daisy and Basira moved closer together.

“No offence, Jon, but have you lost it?” Daisy said eventually.

“Hah.” Jon wiped his eyes, and started to calm down. “No. Yes. Sort of. I see everything now, the path he carved for us. Dancing past each other like the figures in a weather clock, never out at the same time. Too fond of parallels for his own good. Basira, I need you to tell me exactly what lies Elias has been feeding you.”

“We will not compel you,” Custos added gravely. 

“No,” Basira said. “No, I need to see whatever this discovery of yours is for myself. Hear for myself, whatever.”

“More dangerous,” Jon muttered. “More dangerous for all of us, but.” He fell silent, seeing the threads of facts knot themselves together into a net in front of his mind's eye.

“Jon?” Daisy said, worried.

“Go see him, Basira. He's going to offer you something, I don't know what. Peter offered Martin a chance to save the world to drag him towards the Lonely. I would bet on a Dark ritual, but it might be the Extinction. Why not re-use a good lie, after all? But what he'll really be asking for is me. When you see I'm right, be careful.”

“That make absolutely no sense,” Basira said. “You want me to go talk to Jonah?”

“I have a tape for you to hear first, about the Dark,” Jon said. “Then yes. All the proof you could ask for.” He laughed again. “I'm sorry, reality is a little fuzzy. Fuzzy, fuzzy... Where's Martin?”

“Sleeping it off curled up with Sylvia,” Custos said. “Like we should be.”

“Lovely, fuzzy Martin,” Jon said dreamily. “He's very cuddly.”

“What the actual fuck,” Basira said.

“Oh, and I think he might be waking up soon. I should be there – it's not good for him to wake up alone.”

“I thought he was with Sylvia?” Daisy said.

“I mean, daemons don't count, really. And Martin needs more hugs, don't you think? I think so.”

“All right, nap time for the Archivist,” Custos said. He still wasn't blinking. “I'll keep watch.”

Jon gave Basira the tape he'd found and went to lie down next to Martin, who was warm and still holding on to Jon's jumper. The last thing he heard before he went to sleep was Daisy asking Custos what had happened. Let Custos tell it, Jon decided, and slipped under the oily waters of dream.


	14. Chapter 14

“The evidence I've gathered is quite clear,” Elias said. “The Dark are trying to enact their ritual in Ny Ålesund, in the long dark of the polar winter. You should have enough time to make it there.”

“Interesting,” Basira said coldly. “How do you suggest I stop it?”

“You'll need to bring Jon with you.” Elias said smoothly. “This isn't like the circus. Crude explosives will not bring down the dark sun.”

“I went back through some statements. The Dark already tried their ritual, few years back.”

“Perhaps they made a test run,” Elias said, not missing a beat. “They're trying again, and this time-”

“Tell me again, why should I take Jon?”

Elias's lips thinned in displeasure.

“It's rude to interrupt, Detective. He has access to powers that you do not. I can see you still don't trust me.” He sighed in mock sorrow. “It's true there are some things about myself that I have not shared with you, believing that you were not ready to accept them. That doesn't change the facts in front of you. Do you really want to ignore my warnings from petty spite, and doom the world? Can you risk it?”

“You and Peter really were close, weren't you,” Basira said musingly. “All this 'the fate of the world rests on your shoulders' stuff. I suppose if Martin had never compared notes with the rest of us, you could use the exact same bullshit lines to yank us around and we'd never know.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up – static filling the air as Elias removed his hands from the handcuffs, clicking open each lock with the delicate precision of a praying mantis.

“I see,” he said, false bonhomie stripped from his voice as if it had never been. “I had hoped Jon's little sojourn into the Lonely would keep him too occupied for reading. How much does he know?”

“You need Jon for some ritual,” Basira's voice said, entirely out of her control. “I don' t know what, don't know if he does either, but we're on to you.”

“And Peter?”

“Jon killed him,” Basira said. 

“Hm. Pity. He's developed faster than I'd thought possible. How annoying to be surprised at this late juncture.” He smiled, a ghastly thing that stretched across his face like a wound. “Still, where there's life there's hope. And my call to Peter seems to have sparked quite the budding romance. How nice for poor Martin.” He rose from his seat and stretched. “Now, I think I'd better 'make tracks', as they say. I'll be seeing you, Detective.”

“I'll hunt you down,” Basira snarled, trying to move her hands from the table.

“Hmm, I wouldn't try that. I see a tape recorder is already running. You can give your statement for a while yet. Statement of Basira Hussain, concerning... Alice Tonner.”

Basira tried to hold back, but it was a visceral ripping urge, as hard to resist as nausea. Once she was done, after Elias was well and truly away, she pulled the tape out of the tape recorder with shaking hands and crushed it underfoot. It didn't help.

*

“All right, so.” Martin pulled a notebook towards him and frowned. Jon wanted to smooth down the wrinkles in Martin's face with his finger, but he tried to focus. “You have been marked by a number of the Fears, and once you get all of them the apocalypse happens?”

“Yes, I think? It's hazy. Jonah might need to do something else as well.”

“Right. So we should work out which ones are left-”

“The Dark,” Jon interrupted.

“Wait, what? Just the Dark? You've encountered all the others already? That's... I'm a little worried we didn't spot that before.”

“I suppose it is part of the job,” Jon shrugged. “But I've thought about it, and that's the only one I haven't... met?” 

“But you've had Dark statements, and-”

“It's more like...” Jon sighed. “It's not personal to me, the way the others are. I don't panic about switching the light off the way I do about, say, leaving a lit candle unattended.” He touched the burn on his hand. Martin looked at it in horrified realisation.

“You have a phobia collection,” Martin said. “That must be awful.”

“Don't,” Jon said, feeling his throat close up. “Please don't be sympathetic to me right now, I might cry.”

Martin nodded understandingly.

“So,” he said, changing the subject, “We've got the people's church of the divine host and company to think about. We could just... avoid them? Until you find a way to take down Elias? Or stop being the archivist, I suppose.”

Jon let out a harsh laugh.

“They both sound a little improbable, don't they. Jonah, Elias – he's survived a lot. And I died-” Martin winced, and Jon squeezed his hand comfortingly “-I know I'm better now, but would I even be alive if I stopped being the Archivist?”

“Well, time to murder Elias then, I suppose,” Martin said decisively. “I'm not letting you go anywhere.”


	15. Chapter 15

Melanie sauntered in to the office at around one in the afternoon. Her commitment to staying out of the archives as much as possible was unwavering, but after a week away the sickness of absence started to creep in. She'd learned that two weeks was survivable, but suffering through the pain and nausea seemed pointless when she knew she'd just have to come back anyway. Worse, if she left it too long, she'd start walking towards the archives every time her mind wandered, a caught fish being reeled back in. She hated that more than the sickness.

The office seemed different. Basira was gone, but the place seemed warmer, as if there was more life in it. Murmuring voices came from behind Jon's door – not the low tones of a statement being recorded, but a conversation. There was a large black bird on Martin's desk, looking like some form of cursed taxidermy.

“Why is there a massive crow in here?” Melanie asked, raising her voice to carry into the office. The murmur of conversation stopped. The bird turned its head to look at her, and she flinched.

“I am a raven,” it said, in a voice that could have narrated Edgar Allen Poe audiobooks. “My name is Custos.”

“Okay, ominous talking bird,” Melanie said. “Any reason I shouldn't just walk out of here and go take another holiday?”

“We're planning to kill Elias,” Martin said, poking his head out of Jon's office. “He's not listening to us right now.”

“Oh, and Daisy's back!” added a high voice from the level of Martin's calf. Melanie looked at the talking dog, then at Martin. 

“She's a dog version of you,” she said flatly. “I have no idea how I know that, but I do. It finally happened. I've snapped.” She sat down at a desk and took out a tupperware box, which she opened to reveal some sandwiches and a packet of crisps. “I probably shouldn't be surprised. I've been pretty close for a while now. I hope this is actually my lunch and not a box of human skin, or something. Georgie said she'd made me chicken and avocado sandwiches – she puts a little fresh coriander in when she makes them. It's nice.”

“Right,” Martin said, clearly deciding he didn't want to engage with any of that. “Are there any shortcuts to convincing you this is real? Actually, not important, scratch that. Just tell me any ideas you have on killing Elias, you've thought about it a lot.”

“I thought killing him killed all of us,” Melanie said, through a mouthful of sandwich. It tasted normal, which was more reassuring than it had any right to be.

“It's a risk we'll have to take,” Jon said heavily, joining Martin in the doorway. “Hello, Melanie.” He leaned into Martin, who wrapped an arm around him casually.

“I was away for one week,” Melanie said emphatically. “One week. What in the actual fuck has happened?”

“We got animal companions, Jon got Daisy back and killed Peter. Elias is ending the world and won't be distracted forever, so chop chop – how do we kill him?”

“Technically Martin got Sylvia first, and I got Custos later,” Jon began. Martin shot him a look, and he stopped talking.

“Right, okay.” Melanie tried to focus. “We don't have a delivery method for poison, and it has to be something he can't foresee or read our minds about. He's in prison, which limits our access.”

“Not anymore, he's not,” Basira said from the doorway. She took of her coat. “Fucker escaped.”

“Before or after your interview?” Jon asked.

“During. I don't want to talk about it, and don't try to know about it with your creepy eye powers. He's on the run. Where's Daisy?”

“Therapy,” Jon said, then winced. “Sorry, didn't mean to-”

“Elias is watching again,” Custos said. Everyone fell silent.

“So Melanie, how was your break?” Martin asked brightly. “You'll never guess, we got Daisy back from the coffin! Well, Jon did.”

“How's she doing?” Melanie asked, trying to play along. 

“Not well,” Basira said flatly. “I'm going to read some files.” She headed into the nearest storage room with a face like thunder.

“To answer your question,” Melanie said, breaking the silence, “my break was adequate, apart from the fact that I had to come back here. Did you say Lukas was dead?”

“Yep! I, ah, stopped playing along with his Lonely thing,” Martin waved a hand vaguely. “He wasn't very happy about it, so he, uh.” Martin reached for Jon's hand, and Jon interlaced their fingers, stroking his thumb soothingly across Martin's knuckles. 

“He hurt you?” Melanie guessed. “And Jon came to the rescue?”

Jon and Martin gave each other a quick, unreadable glance, a look that made Melanie feel abruptly like an intruder.

“Something like that,” Martin said, with a faint, melancholy smile.

“Actually, I killed him first and then went after Martin,” Jon said.

“You tried to kill Martin?!” Melanie said, horrified. Basira came back into the room, fast enough that it was clear she'd been listening in.

“No!” Jon said, even more horrified. “No, I, ah, went after him into the Lonely, to bring him back. Good Lord, Melanie.”

“What's it like in there?” Melanie asked.

“I'd rather talk about something else, actually,” Martin said loudly. “Like, anything else.”

“Fair enough,” Melanie said, and cast about for another question to keep her mind off the prospect of murdering Elias. It was difficult to think of anything but seeing his smug, evil face collapse into the slackness of death and finally, finally getting free. “Did you two hook up before or after?”

“Um,” Martin said, blushing. “I, ah-”

Custos cawed loudly, and rustled his feathers.

“Elias is busy again - talking to Jude Perry, so I think he certainly intends to attack us.”

“Oh thank god,” Martin said.

“He's been manipulating us,” Basira said. 

“Obviously,” Jon said, with a snort.

“No, moron, I mean he's – ugh. When you pick statements, how do you do it?”

“I pick ones that feel... interesting.” Jon said, looking uncomfortable. “That feel like they contain real fear.” 

“Ones the Eye wants you to read,” Basira said. 

“I suppose so,” Jon said, confused, and Melanie started to see the outline of Basira's point.

“What about the ones you don't want?” she asked.

“The fakes?”

“No, like – are there any you actively don't want to read? That the Eye doesn't want you to read.”

“Oh! I...” Jon turned around and started looking for something. “I took some tapes from Elias's old office, after Daisy.” He emptied the box out on the table. 

Martin spread the tapes out on the desk.

“Which ones feel bad?” 

Jon looked at them. He pointed towards a tape.

“That's the worst one. I want to break it,” Custos said darkly. Jon nodded his agreement, looking ill.

Melanie snatched up the tape.

“Leave if you need to, but I'm listening to it right now. Let me know if he starts watching us again.” She put it in the nearest tape recorder, and pressed play.


	16. Chapter 16

The tape clicked off. Eric Delano's statement hung in the air. He had sounded hoarse with pain, every word an effort, and everyone there felt the weight of it. Martin shivered once, convulsively. If he'd heard this a year ago, what would he have done? Would he have had the courage to pick up a sharp object and-

Sylvia whined, jumping up so that Martin caught her up in his arms and held her close.

“Right,” Melanie said, sounding as if someone had punched the wind out of her.

“No,” Martin said, horrified. “No, we're not doing that!” He felt sick, unable to stop picturing what it would look like – the surface of an eye, resisting and then suddenly broken open. The breathless pain of it.

“Are you sure?” Jon said, looking green. Martin turned on him, his fear transmuting into anger. He could imagine Jon hurting himself, all too vividly, and it made him hurt in a way that he could barely understand, sharp and fragile at once.

“You least of all – would you even survive?”

“I don't know,” Jon said, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing their capacity for violence. “But it might be worth it?”

“It's dark when you're blind, Jon,” Martin said. “Remember the dark, the thing you're supposed to be avoiding?”

“Fair point,” Jon said, looking relieved. Martin took his hand. The fury died down like a wave drawing back into the sea, leaving the fear behind.

“You don't need an excuse not to blind yourself,” Martin said quietly. “But please don't?” He swallowed. “I'm not sure I could cope.”

“I might do it,” Melanie said hoarsely. “If this doesn't work.” Daisy nodded, in understanding if not agreement.

“No chance,” Basira said, coolly decisive. “But it does give me an idea for Elias.”

*

Custos knew Elias was planning to come back to the Institute, to reassert his control. Jon said he could feel it too when he focused. It was a sick dread pulsing with his heartbeat, like a toothache. Elias was getting closer.

Basira said they each needed to come up with their own part. Jon and Custos to watch, obviously. The rest of them to distract or damage Elias – or both, if they could. But it had to be things that were as random as possible, things that could be interpreted a few different ways.

Basira probably had a plan for dealing some damage. She refused to talk about it to any of them, though Melanie had seen a bag of toilet bleach and barbecue skewers at her desk. Though who knew? Maybe Basira was planning a mixed grill for dinner, to be followed by cleaning her bathroom. 

Melanie was tasked with coming up with a lure. So once she'd had the word from Custos, she started dousing a pile of tapes in paraffin. Statements recorded by Jon, mostly, so she wasn't depriving him of future food. The others scattered, to converge once the lure had worked.

“Gosh, I hope no one sees me burning all these statements,” she said aloud, a little giddy. 

The door to the storeroom opened.

“Miss King!” Elias snarled, and Melanie snatched up the scalpel from the floor next to her and ran at him, her adrenaline spiking so sharply she couldn't think. Better to die fighting than face whatever awful knowledge Elias would use to punish her.

Elias was surprisingly strong, catching and crushing her hand around the handle of the scalpel. She screamed as she felt a bone break.

“I told you what would happen,” Elias said, viciously smug. “It's going to hurt, so feel free to cry. Your father's death was particularly agonising.”

Melanie closed her eyes. There was a sharp sound, then a thump, and Elias let go of her hand as he fell to the ground. There was a strong smell of bleach in the air as she turned and fled to the far corner of the office, curling into a corner. It couldn't have been more than a minute before she heard Basira's voice.

“Melanie?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I get here in time?” Basira said, urgently. “Did he-”

“You did,” Melanie said. She was shaking, and she couldn't seem to get up. “You got him?”

“Yeah. He's alive, I think, but I got his eyes.” Basira's words slurred and stumbled as if she was concussed. “I feel sick.” She sunk down to the floor next to Melanie. 

“The Eye's angry with us,” Melanie said, her tongue thick in her mouth. 

“Worth it,” Basira sighed. “I hope Daisy makes it, even if we don't.”

The sounds of the others arriving filtered in. Melanie was too tired to look up.

“Basira?” Daisy's voice was panicked. “I didn't think – you told me it would be later!”

“Had to lay down some false leads,” Basira said. “Sorry.” 

“Aw Christ,” Martin said, sounding horrified. Hi voice came from the direction of Elias's body. “That – well, it looks like it worked?”

“Oh yes,” Jon said, darkly satisfied.

“Stop dicking around, Basira's hurt!” Daisy snapped. “And Melanie's just lying there, Jon, what's happening?”

“The Eye is angry,” Melanie repeated.

“Oh. Yes." Jon sounded very far away - they all sounded far away, as if Melanie was falling down a well.

“Do something!” Martin shouted.

“These people are mine,” Jon said, his voice warping into layers, power folding around him like a tangible weight in the air. Melanie found she could breathe again. “Conduits of the Beholding. Elias is gone. Jonah is nothing. I am the open Eye that watches, and they see for me.”

Melanie felt strength seep back into her limbs. She struggled to sit up, and saw Custos perching on Elias's body, his beak plunging into Elias's face. The image didn't make sense, until she saw the slick gleam of blood and bleach on Custos's beak.

“Is he... eating Elias's eyes?”

“Custos, no!” Martin said, running over. He picked Custos up, one hand over each wing, and Custos swallowed something grisly down before turning and glaring at Martin.

“It was necessary,” Custos croaked. “Someone had to take his place.”


	17. Chapter 17

Jon stared open-eyed at the wall in front of him, trying not to move. He could feel an ominous pressure against the walls of reality, like a headache out in the world. Whole new layers of terrible sight had been revealed when Custos had taken Jonah's eyes, taken that power into them both.

“Jon?” Martin's voice filtered through the overwhelming streams of knowledge, all the dull fear and sharp terror in London, in Britain, wider, more...  
Martin sounded scared, too. Jon tried to focus on that.

“Jon, you're crying.” He felt a tissue moving gently against his cheek. “Please blink, love.”

He remembered he had a body, and blinked.

“Good, that's good, keep blinking.” Jon looked at Martin with his mortal eyes and saw his pale, anxious face, his trembling hand.

“The others have gone,” Sylvia said, trotting over. 

There was the sound of several stern voices at once, as if Custos had been trapped in some sort of echo chamber.

“One at a time!” Sylvia snapped.

“Basira is-” “-with Daisy getting sandwiches, thinking about-” “Melanie's gone to call Georgie, crying-” “-Elias is in the ambulance-” “Elias is in more pain than he has ever been” “-Jonah is gone-”

Jon turned around, and saw an uncountable number of Custos. Not infinite, just uncountable – you could look at the flock of ravens and be sure there were nine, but then another would appear, and then suddenly there must be five, but it seemed like less – every time you counted, a different number.

“Oh no. That can't be good.”

“Yep, that's bad!” Martin agreed, his voice edged with hysteria. “But there's also the fact you two - You and Custos - seem to have decided to become the new Jonah! Which I would rank as a bigger problem, personally.”

“Is this going to be our first fight?” Jon asked, trying to make a joke of it. “I was hoping we'd at least last out the week before disagreeing over takeaway options, or something.” Martin didn't laugh.

“That depends. Are you going to tell me it was a good idea?” Martin crossed his arms and fixed Jon with a deeply unimpressed look.

“It was necessary,” Jon said wearily. “The best of a set of bad choices. I couldn't let Melanie and Basira die, and once I had the Eye's attention... there was a power vacuum. Without someone running the show, the whole institute would fall, with all of us inside it. Or someone worse than me would be chosen to fill the role.”

“You choosing to run the institute means you're willingly feeding human fear to something evil!”

“I can slow it down,” Jon argued, feeling that horrible presence in the back of his head. “I can keep it from taking too much. What if it was someone like Peter, or, or some of the statement givers we've had? I won't feed anyone to the Eye, just...”

“Just a little nibble?” Martin asked snidely. 

“I can control it,” Jon said, and then added, more uncertainly, “at least I think I can? I'm mostly just feeling everything, there's so much fear in the world-”

“This is not filling me with confidence in your decisions!” Martin said, his voice high-pitched.

“I didn't have a lot of time to decide,” Jon said curtly. “What would you have done, then?”

“Not that!” Martin shouted, then sighed and uncrossed his arms. Jon stayed silent as Martin took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. It was something Martin had learned at school, after he'd been goaded into one too many fights – Jon wrenched his mind away from the unasked-for knowledge. Not there, he told himself firmly. We don't Look at Martin.

“I see where you're coming from,” Martin said carefully. “And I don't know what I would have chosen in your place. But you're the new Jonah, and your soul is visibly split into pieces, and that's terrifying. I'm scared for you.” 

“And of me,” Jon said, his voice hollow. Martin looked away, but didn't contradict him. Jon's heart started to beat faster. “Martin, I would never hurt you,” he said, stumbling over his words.

“You say that now,” Martin said, smiling a weak and wobbly smile that faded quickly. 

“No, Martin, I mean it,” Jon stepped closer and put his hands on Martin's shoulders, his voice frantic. “I swear it, I'll never hurt you-” Martin put his fingers over Jon's lips.

“It's okay,” Martin said. “Don't promise that. Relationships are hard enough without making impossible promises. We probably are going to hurt each other because that kind of thing happens by accident, all the time. But when it does... try to make it because you did something human? I'd rather that you forgot my birthday than that you rifled through my memories for it.” He moved his hand to cup Jon's cheek. “I'm not scared of you, okay? Just your horrific, unworldly powers, which I am trusting you to tell me about and hopefully keep vaguely under control.”

“Noted.” Jon said, his throat closing up. “You're not ending this, then?”

Martin smiled at him, a real smile.

“Firstly, well done for not looking into my head to check. Secondly, no, you don't get rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” Jon said. He leaned in to hug Martin close, pressing his face into Martin's neck, trying to focus on the man in his arms and not the endless streams of mortal fear flowing around them. Martin ran his fingers gently through Jon's hair. “I don't want to get rid of you,” Jon said, his voice muffled. “I love you.”

“Love you too. I'm still a little bit mad at you,” Martin said softly. “But I'm mostly just worried – you're shivering, do you need a blanket? Some food? Are you going to faint again?”

“I'll get back to you on the fainting,” Jon said. “Custos, why am I shaking?”

“I know” “We know what-” “You should sit” “You should rest” “We can watch for danger” “We can defend.”

“I think Custos means you need to sit down and have some tea,” Martin said firmly.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon folded down into the chair Martin guided him to, like a puppet with its strings cut. He spread out his fingers, staring at his hands, and Martin saw the tremors begin to subside. The many forms of Custos shifted again, more wings and eyes and birds blossoming out of nothing.

“I'm not Jonah,” Jon said.

“I know,” Martin said. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Just, y'know...” He shrugged. 

“Scared,” Jon said, in a way that made Martin's chest ache. “Yeah, I'm right there with you.”

“You look cold.” Martin took off his cardigan and draped it round Jon's shoulders.

“Thanks.” Jon wrapped it more closely around him. “Martin, I – look, I didn't want to say it that way. Could I try again?”

“Say what?”

“I do love you. I didn't say it because- well, I did partly say it because I was worried you were going to leave me. But I would have said it anyway.”

Martin felt his face heat up. He tried desperately to look even slightly dignified.

“I know it's a little fast,” Jon said seriously, as if Martin could possibly still care about normal relationship timelines at this juncture.

“We did just murder someone together,” Martin pointed out, his brain-to-mouth filter completely offline. “I think that's usually a post-wedding level of commitment. I mean, if it counts as murder. I mean, I love you too, I wasn't just saying it because we'd had a fight either.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened then again. “Fuck, can I get a second try as well?”

“Why not? As many chances as we like,” Jon said, smiling a small, shy smile. 

Martin stifled the urge to tell Jon how cute he was, in favour of saying something less embarrassing.

“I'll go make the tea. I'll be right back.”

*

Martin couldn't stop a smile creeping onto his face as he put the kettle on and got out the teabags. Sylvia wagged her tail.

“They like us,” she told Martin conspiratorially. “Jon said he loves you!”

“Hush, you,” Martin said, trying to be stern.

“Oh come on! Why can't we enjoy this one little thing?”

“Jon's not well,” Martin said firmly, pouring the boiling water into the teapot.“We have to-”

“What, we have to solve every problem in the whole world before you can crack a smile?”

It felt terrible to be happy – Jon was so visibly under strain, and everyone was still trapped in the service of the Eye and the institute. But they'd been trapped all along, they just hadn't known it, and Jonah was gone, and Martin was so very, very tired of feeling hopeless.

“Oh... all right. Just one minute.” Martin leaned down to pick her up and twirled her around in a spin. Sylvia barked happily. “I said it back! He said loves me and I said it back.”

“Go Martin!” Sylvia said. “You should ask him whether he'd be your boyfriend.”

“I – isn't that implied?”

“Probably, yeah, but he might like to be asked? And maybe we could go to his place tonight, and-”

“Can we?” Martin asked, struck by an unwelcome bout of practicality. “What about Custos, can we get him outside? He's hardly inconspicuous – is he still the same bird, even?”

“He's still Custos, just... in several bodies. He feels like Custos,” Sylvia said uncertainly. Her tail stopped wagging, and Martin felt a little guilty. He put her down poured the brewed tea into two stained china mugs. 

“You were right,” he told her firmly. “It was worth taking a moment to be happy.”

“One day,” Sylvia said wistfully, “I want a whole week. We'll shove the Eye into a woodchipper and have a picnic, the four of us.”

“You could play frisbee with Custos,” Martin suggested, laughing. They headed back to Jon and Custos, Martin carrying the tea.

Jon was sitting where Martin had put him on an office chair, staring at the wall, while Custos shifted in his many bodies like an optical illusion.

“Tea,” Martin announced.

It took a full five seconds for Jon to blink and turn towards him.

“Oh. Thanks.” He took the tea. 

“How is it?” Martin asked tentatively. “The, you know-”

“The endless stream of human fear forcing itself into my brain?” Jon intoned grimly, and Martin nodded. “I think I'm... getting used to it, a bit? It helps to be talking to you.”

“Well, good. We can just keep talking, then.” Martin promptly couldn't think of anything to say.

“Thanks for the tea,” Jon said, after a pause.

“Custos, how are you?” Sylvia asked, turning her head to look at Custos in several different places.

“This is strange” “Odd” “I am not hurt” “I am seeing so many things” “We are” “That's odd too”

“What's odd?” Sylvia asked. Martin gave her an incredulous look.

“I am still myself” “But we are all seeing different things” “But we are all still one person” “All still me”

“That sounds like a good thing,” Sylvia said cautiously.

“I'm not sure,” Jon said. “I think – I think it's a sign that we are stuck halfway. I think we're something between monster and human, trying to be both at once.”

“Can you come down here?” Sylvia asked Custos. The kaleidoscopic flutter of wings as Custos flew down to the floor made Martin blink, as his eyes tried to adjust to seeing something impossible.

“What is it?” “What now” “Hello Syllabub” “Sylvia”

“Hi Custard,” Sylvia said softly. She leaned forward to nuzzle at one of Custos's wings, and the many layers of bird abruptly condensed into one surprised raven. 

“I didn't know I could do that,” Custos said. “Oh, goodness me, that feels so... normal. Thank you.” He leaned forward, combing his beak through Sylvia's fur.

“Ow,” Jon said, and they all turned to look at him in alarm. “No, no, don't look at me like that, just a headache.” He winced. “The, ah...” He trailed off, staring at the wall.

“Jon. Jon?” Martin clicked his fingers in front of Jon's unblinking eyes. “Jon, what's wrong?”

“Oh,” Custos said, as if he had just realised something, and shifted back into his many forms.

“Jon!”

Jon looked at Martin, confused. 

“What? Wait, was I saying something?”

“Oh” “I understand” “We can pass it between us” “The monstrous can be expressed in one or both” “If I am whole he is broken” “If I am broken he can be whole.”

“Oh,” Jon said, looking nauseous. He reached out for Custos, his hand stroking one ragged black wing that blurred under his fingers. “Oh Custos, what have we done to ourselves?”

“You did nothing, Jon” “This was not our choice” “They did this to us” “Jonah made this road” “We only walked the path”


	19. Chapter 19

Elias's body breathed mechanically in the hospital bed, with no sign of occupancy. No dream tensed the muscles of his face, or caused any change in his shallow, slow breathing. His heart beat like a metronome, a countdown to a death that seemed to Basira like it would be a mercy when it came.

“I don't think he's still in there,” Daisy said, with an air of professional assessment. For all Basira knew, Daisy could have tested bodies for possession dozens of times before – maybe this was the voice of experience. “I suppose there was an Elias Bouchard originally, but it's anyone's guess how long Jonah was controlling him for. Even if he wasn't scooped out and tossed away years ago, how could anyone survive sharing a brain with Magnus?”

“It's a long shot,” Basira said, staring at the bandages over Elias's eyes. If he woke up, he wouldn't be able to see the chemical burns on his face, but they would hurt. “But it's not like we have many reliable sources. If he wakes up, if he remembers anything-”

“Waiting for perfect information has killed people before. We can work with what we have,” Daisy said, and for a moment she sounded like her old self. Hard, sharp, and as strong as steel. Basira had a sickening moment of relief before Daisy continued, her voice soft and hesitant. “Basira, you don't need to watch him like this. You should rest.”

“You go rest, if you're tired!” Basira snapped, and Daisy swayed away from her, then turned to find a chair.

“I know I'm not useful to you any more,” Daisy said, sitting down. Her muscles didn't shift under her skin when she moved any more, too wasted away to show. “I know you don't trust me to have your back. That's okay. You probably shouldn't. Just because I'd fight for you doesn't mean I'd win, not now.”

“Daisy-”

“It's okay. I remember what it's like, to be in the grip of one of the powers. You're being driven, and it feels so important...”

“This isn't them. This is me,” Basira said. “Not the Eye or the Hunt or anything, it's me looking for answers. This thing ripped our lives apart, I have to know why, I have to stop it-”

Daisy laughed softly. “You know you sound exactly like Jon right now, don't you?”

“I-” Basira couldn't go on. She couldn't deny it, but the thought of being manipulated was so nauseating her mind kept denying it, rejecting it against all logic.

“It drives you to seek,” Daisy said. “And I understand how compelling that is. But you lied to me to get Elias, and I can't even tell you that you shouldn't have, but I need you not to do that again. Just don't lie to me again. Please.”

“All right,” Basira agreed, after too long a pause. It sounded like another lie, even to her.

*

Melanie hadn't done much but sob down the phone at first, but after some time had calmed down enough to say she was coming to Georgie's flat, that it had been a bad, bad day. That someone was dead. Melanie usually tried not to tell Georgie about anything that wasn't a direct threat, at Georgie's request. Georgie didn't let her say any more, just told her to come home and to be safe. 

Then Georgie ended the call, and went to buy food, focusing on the taut purple of a fresh aubergine, on picking the best kind of chilli sauce. She didn't want to wonder what a bad day at Melanie's job looked like. She didn't want to think about what that job was. Jon had brought Georgie too close to the shadowy world of fear again, and she wouldn't let herself be dragged in. If she stood firm enough, perhaps she could even try to pull Melanie out – but no matter what, Georgie was going to keep herself free. 

Melanie looked like hell, and feel into Georgie's arms as if she'd been gone for a long time. They held each other tightly, and Georgie felt torn in two, the way she always did. Watching Melanie suffer, but knowing that to ask why and how would only make things worse. Trying to be an anchor. It was hard to talk with so many words hovering unspoken between them.

“I bought stuff for dinner,” Georgie said.

“Sounds great,” Melanie's voice cracked.

Melanie reached for Georgie's hand hesitantly as soon as they sat down at the dinner table, and Georgie paused a moment before allowing her fingers to entwine with Melanie's. It was hard to show affection sometimes, knowing that Melanie was in some sense always watched, always under the Eye. Georgie wanted nothing more than to never deal with one of those entities again, never even brush past the edge of one, never show them any hint of her feelings. 

But she couldn't have chosen to do anything other than fall in love with Melanie, and having fallen, could not choose anything other than to keep her close and love her fiercely. 

Melanie was passionate, and brave, and hated the entities as much as Georgie did – she was trying to get out, not wading deeper in like poor, unravelling Jon. He kept seeping in to their conversations, though they both tried to avoid talking about the Magnus Institute and everyone in it. 

“I need to tell you one thing, about today,” Melanie said, and waited for Georgie to nod before she went on. “There's a way out. I'll take it if I have to. But it's going to hurt, a lot, and I'll need you afterwards. For a long time.”

“You have me,” Georgie said, sure and true. “I'll be there.”

“Okay,” Melanie said. “That's the only thing you need to know. Tell me about your day?”


	20. Chapter 20

“We just need to find out how to get you out of this, this vision thing,” Martin said, tidying his desk. “And how to stop the Dark. And what would trigger Jonah's ritual. And how to get the rest of us out too. And how to bring down the Institute. Or, wait, there are a few aren't there? Do we need to take down just the Eye ones or would that unbalance things?”

“Martin, before you try to eradicate all fear from the world, perhaps you should have some sleep? In a bed?” Jon said, like a massive hypocrite. Martin gave him a look.

“You're hungry,” Sylvia told Martin. “And we're not sleeping here again, you both need to shower. You still smell like the beach.” As soon as she'd said it, Martin could smell it too, a bitter smell like crushed rock and salt. He shuddered.

“All right. Yeah, we should go home. Do you need a statement, Jon?”

“No. I think I don't need them at all, not any more. Whatever Jonah used to survive, it wasn't that.”

“Great, so we just need to get Custos back to your place. How did you take him home last time?”

“He just sat on my shoulder,” Jon said, looking confused about why a man carrying an adult raven might attract any attention. Then again, London. Perhaps Martin overestimated the amount people cared about giant birds wandering down the street.

“He's a bit more... glitchy now,” Martin pointed out, and Custos croaked protestingly – well, some of him did, anyway.

“Martin, don't be rude,” Sylvia reproached him. “How would you feel if it was you?”

“I genuinely can't imagine,” Martin admitted. “Sorry, Custos.”

“He could, ah, condense down for the journey, and I could take the strain for a while,” Jon said. “If you really think it would cause a problem.” He was using the patronising voice that meant he was humouring Martin. 

“Less of the smug voice,” Martin said. “I'm just trying to help. Unless you think it wouldn't attract attention?”

“I suppose,” Jon sighed.

“Martin!” Sylvia hissed.

“What?”

“Don't be all snippy at them! What if they stop liking us?”

“I rather enjoy it, actually,” Jon told Sylvia. Martin could feel himself blushing. “It has the virtue of clarity. And not many people have ever fussed over me.”

“And it means Martin isn't afraid” “he's only quiet around people he thinks he might offend” “people who abandon him the second he stands up for himself” “not scared of us” Custos said.

“That's quite enough of that, thank you!” Jon said loudly. “No Looking at Martin.”

“We knew that already” “you've known that a long time” “no Looking required.”

“Here's our own hands against our hearts,” Martin muttered.

“Our own hounds against our hearts, more like” Jon said, and Martin let out a startled bark of laughter. He looked at Jon's smiling face, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the curl of his hair, and was struck by a wave of affection that he could barely contain.

“I need to kiss you properly for that.” He stepped closer, and Jon lifted his face. 

“For what? And though I like Shakespeare's comedies, Hamlet's my favourite.” 

Martin leaned down and pressed his lips to Jon's. Doing something so warm and human together felt like a banner of defiance. Here was Jon, scars and skin and spirit, beloved, holding him close as they kissed, and for a few moments the weight of every question he was carrying fell away.

“Okay, fuck it. Let's just walk to your place,” Martin said, resting his forehead against Jon's. “It would be Hamlet, wouldn't it. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

“The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”

“Too on the nose,” Martin groaned. “God, what I wouldn't give for it just to be natural shocks.”

It was after dark when they set out, and they took the back roads. Custos hovered a few metres up, above the light of the streetlamps. A couple of people looked up at the sound of wings, and then hastily down.

“More statements tomorrow,” Jon said gloomily.

“Nah,” Martin said, unconvincingly. “Well, not tomorrow, anyway. Too much other work to get done. We might have to close to the public.”

“No more work chat!” Sylvia said. A passer-by did a double take.

“Jesus,” Martin muttered. “Okay, let's talk about... what kind of takeaway you want. I know you don't need it, but food can be nice.”

“Nepalese,” Jon said decisively.

“Okay.” 

There was a pause.

“What's in Nepalese?” Martin asked.

“Curry. Broadly like North Indian but less heat, more ginger.”

“Okay, sounds nice.”

“Did you grow up in London?”

“What?”

“I was brought up in Bournemouth,” Jon said. “I thought we could... get to know each other? It's a bit late, I suppose, but-”

“No – yeah, that sounds good. I was a kid in Yorkshire to start with. Moved a few places after my parents split, ended up with Mum in Reading in an absolute nothing of a suburb, I probably couldn't pick it out in a line-up. London was pretty close by, and there are more jobs here, so. What was Bournemouth like?”

“Quiet. I never really appreciated the sea while I was there, but I miss it sometimes.” Jon said, and they and their hesitant conversation wandered through the night.


	21. Chapter 21

They'd technically already shared a bed, Martin told himself firmly. Yes, it had been a pile of blankets and cushions, but they'd slept on it next to each other. Just because this was Jon's actual bed didn't change anything. 

“Do you want some pyjamas?” Jon asked. “I've probably got something that will fit.”

“Yeah, actually,” Martin said, after a frozen second of indecision. “And I could stand to do some laundry as well?”

“Of course – here's my dressing gown. If you, uh, get changed and give me your clothes I'll put a wash on while you shower.”

Jon dug energetically through some boxes in his wardrobe while Martin changed in the bathroom. Martin could hear thumping and a muffled 'a-ha!' - clearly some kind of success had been achieved. He tied the dressing gown cord tightly around his waist and shuffled out, his arms full of brine-smelling clothes. Sylvia was already curled at the foot of the bed, a tight, round ball of red-roan fur. Custos – well, some of him – perched along the footrail of the bed.

“Thanks,” Martin said, dumping the clothes in the laundry basket Jon pointed to. 

“Least I could do,” Jon said, smiling at him nervously. “I, uh. Hope you enjoy the shower. Oh, I should show you – one of the taps is pretty tricky.” He held out the clothes to Martin, thrusting his arms out as if handing over an urgent package, and then went into the bathroom.

“Okay,” Martin said, following. It was oddly comforting that Jon also apparently had no idea how to handle him being here. Jon turned the shower on for him, tested the temperature, hovered next to the sink, then visibly and abruptly realised he was hovering and left. Martin grinned, hopelessly fond, and then stepped into the shower.

*

“Let me show you the taps,” Jon mimicked himself, quietly. “What the hell was that? Idiot.” 

“He has nice legs” “broad shoulders” “he's very tall” Custos said. There were only three of him.

“You can shut up too,” Jon said. The noise of the shower cut off, and Martin emerged shortly after in a close-fitting faded t-shirt Jon had bought to be oversized, and some boxers he'd ordered online and never got around to returning when he'd found them to be too large. Jon had a sudden urge to rub his face against Martin's chest. He could faintly smell the coconut shampoo Martin had used.

“Bed,” Jon said unnecessarily, pointing to the bed. Martin lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“I see that.”

“Sorry. Yes. I should-”

“It's just me,” Martin said encouragingly. “You're doing great.”

Jon stopped moving, and looked at Martin. In his flat, in his clothes, going to bed with him.

“Thanks,” Jon said. “I want you to like it here.”

“You're here,” Martin said. “I already like it. Go shower, I want to cuddle and then fall asleep on you.”

Unlike most of their plans, this one went off without a hitch.  
*

“What if Custos went back to where he came from? Recombined with your soul or whatever – would that help you be more in control?” Martin asked over breakfast the next morning. 

“I'm... not sure,” Jon said, frowning. “I have no idea. That feels extremely odd. I guess an Archivist has never had a daemon before – if it's never happened before, maybe there's nothing to know?”  
“The Leitner must have had some previous victims,” Martin said. 

“Or beneficiaries,” Sylvia said primly, “depending on how you think about it.”

“Yes, all right,” Martin said with mock annoyance. She yapped at him, and he reached down th stroke her ears. “I've been thinking, it must need something from us, something like, like getting in tune with yourself...” Martin trailed off. “That's a bit too nice for a Leitner, isn't it.”

“Adrian Lerwick, Cole Harper and Jessica Elton all gained daemons from the book,” Jon said, his eyes fixedly staring into the middle distance. “Cole is still living with his parrot daemon Heironymus. Adrian's was hit by a car, killing them both. Jessica managed to figure out how to take hers back in, but none of them had a connection to the Eye, so I have no idea what it would do to me-”

“Wait, what did Jessica do?”

Jon paused for a moment, then laughed ruefully.

“Well, on the bright side, it isn't difficult. And it's very reversible. I'm rather annoyed I didn't spot it before.”

Custos ruffled several sets of wings. 

“not infallible” “stop pretending” “you're not an expert on everything” “give yourself a break”

“I agree with him. Them,” Martin corrected himself. “Him/Them. And honestly, the extra perspective is pretty helpful, right now. If we don't know it will help, maybe we just... save it for later?”

“We should talk to the others first, at least,” Jon said. “Perhaps look through some statements, see if we can find out anything about Jonah's powers.”  
*  
Basira got the phone call at nine. She didn't stop to tell anyone, just took a taxi to the hospital and strode up to the ward, her pulse thrumming with anticipation. She stopped just inside the door of Elias's hospital room, looking at the man stirring in the bed, his eyes obscured by bandages, his mouth pale and set in lines of pain.

“Elias Bouchard.” She kept her voice even, pitched a little louder than usual to wake him from the nightmare he seemed to be having.

Elias whimpered as he jerked awake, clutching at the blanket covering him.

“What? Who is that?”

“My name is Basira. Do you remember me?”

He was silent for a few seconds, his fingers working at the blanket covering him.

“I – it's weird, but maybe, yeah?” He still had the familiar posh accent, but his words were slurred at the edges, nothing like Jonah's crisp, smug diction. “Detective?”

“He used to call me that,” Basira said, her voice like iron. She felt her nails digging into her palm and consciously relaxed.

“Oh thank fuck, you know about him,” Elias said. “I've been trying to sound, like, not completely starkers, yeah?”

“You remember Magnus?” Basira leaned forward intently. “You have to tell me everything you remember, everything he did.”

“It's not a lot, yeah?” said Elias feebly. “He didn't monologue his evil plans at me, I think he forgot I was there most of the time.” He sounded faintly offended by this.

“Okay, what do you remember about Jonathan Sims?”

“Jonah though of him like a pet. No, like a show dog or something, yeah? Like he was grooming him for a big event.”

“What kind of event?”

“The Watcher's Crown. It's complicated, I didn't catch much, but he wanted to, uh, mark the Archivist? Which is Jon Sims, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Basira said, too focused for irony.

“And after, there was going to be some kind of, like, invocation. He spent a lot of time thinking about the words for that. Lots about calling and summoning and opening, yeah? Turgid bullshit.”

Basira exhaled, so relieved she felt, for a moment, light-headed. A trigger - even if Jon got marked by the Dark, Jonah wasn't around to set him off.

“He wrote it in a statement,” Elias said. “One of those forms, I recognised it from – from before.” He winced, moving his head in a vain attempt to find a less painful position. “Have you got any painkillers?”

“You have a button,” Basira said, spotting the IV control switch hanging from it s wire by the bed. “Here, I'll get it for you.” She picked it up and took Elias's hand, curling his fingers around it. “When it hurts, press the big red button – the big button. Sorry.”

“Thanks. Fuck, it hurts. Not just my eyes, everything. I'm so old now, it's weird.” He pressed the button, and his eyes started to droop shut.

“Where's the statement?” Basira asked.

“Hazel,” Elias sighed, and fell asleep.


	22. Chapter 22

The statement was buried deeply. Jon extracted it, and laid it flat upon the table. He was beginning to get the hang of Gertrude's 'opposite from and 17 degrees to the left of the logical place' filing system.

“Found anything good?” Martin asked.

“Maybe. It's odd, though, I don't want it.”

“Like the Eye is warning you off it, or-”

“Like I'm... not hungry.” Jon looked up at Custos, trying to gauge whether this monstrous aspect had become his daemon's burden, and Custos snapped his beaks in a snare-drum rattle. 

“neither of us are” “We aren't hungry” “whatever we live on now, it isn't statements” “could use a sandwich, though”

“That's great!” Martin said. “No more attacking pedestrians for their tasty trauma! Score one for team anti-Magnus.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him.

“Team No-nah Mag-fuck-off? Team Shuteye? Team No-Fear?” 

“Team Eyegouge,” said Sylvia. 

“Gruesome, yet strangely fitting,” Jon said absently. “Do you think I should still record the statements as I read them? The tape recorders are still showing up.”

Martin frowned.

“I keep thinking I should look into where those are coming from. I swear we only used to have a couple. Oh, look!” He straightened up, holding a mixed batch of dusty files of different colours. “This lot have Gertrude's handwriting on the spines.”

Basira strode into the room, and knocked the files out of Martin's hands.

“Hey!”

“Do you two never check your phones?”

“We're at work,” Jon said primly. Basira gave him a look, and he wilted slightly. “I, uh keep mine on silent.”

“No statements. No reading, no touching, definitely no reading out loud,” she said, pointing at him. “Anything you read has to go through someone else first.”

“Because?” Jon said, looking down his nose at her.

“Because Elias woke up this morning, and Jonah apparently left a trigger for his ritual hidden in a written statement.”

“Ah.” Jon put down the paper he was holding, and stepped gingerly away.

“He said there was a lot of stuff about, opening and summoning in it – shouldn't be too hard to spot. He also said 'Hazel', but for all I know that's an ex-girlfriend or something. He seemed pretty out of it.”

Jon sat down and lodged his hands under his thighs. Marting started paging through the bundle of statements he was holding.

“Any clue where it might be?”

“Nope,” Basira said, looking through index cards. “He fell asleep before I could ask – he's on a lot of painkillers.” 

Martin grimaced.

“Poor guy. What's he like? Real Elias.”

“Mildly annoying posh boy,” Basira said dismissively. “How the fuck are these index cards organised? I can't find a Hazel anywhere.”

“Do you really think Jonah would index his handiwork?” Jon asked wearily. It was hard to keep himself from picking up more files. He balled his hands into fists beneath his thighs.

“He might,” Basira said defensively, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe not. Why would it be that easy?”

“could look” “I could find it” “I could know it” “we could-”

“No!” Jon said harshly. “Custos, no. You can't. You could set it off.”

Custos croaked angrily, several of him flapping up to the ceiling before settling again.

There was a tense silence. Custos suddenly looked very alien to Jon, his soul somehow not entirely a part of him. Worse – a part of something else, something inhuman.

“That's worrying,” Jon said. “Custos. What do you want?”

There was a sound like inverted static, and Martin gasped. Jon looked down to see bright red blood on his shirt. He put a hand to his face and felt wet blood – a nosebleed. Perhaps trying to compel an answer from his own soul had been a bit ambitious.

Custos flapped down to perch on his lap – only one of him, now. He butted his feathery head against Jon's chest.

“I'm sorry,” Custos said, his voice wretched. “I don't know what that was. I want – I don't know what I want. I want everyone to be okay, but something is pulling at me.”

“You have to say no,” Jon said softly. He could feel the flow of fear through him once more, now less like a flood and more like a river, running within a channel in his mind. 

“You're better at it than I am,” Custos croaked. “I think it's time to use what we found out, Jon.”

*

“Do you have to go?” Sylvia asked.

“Need to go back” “Can't stay out here” “Vulnerable to the Eye” “I'm sorry, Sylvia”

“I know,” she said, nuzzling him. “I know, Custard. It's okay, you won't really be gone - I'll take care of Jon.”

“Remind him to listen to me occasionally,” Custos said, condensing down into one tattered black form. There was salt rime in his feathers, adding to the burns and scars already visible. “Only on the harmless things, though. Get him to go to that spa.” He bated his feathers,

Custos and Sylvia pressed against each other on the floor, Custos wrapping a wing around her as they said goodbye. Martin had to look away, trying to focus on why Custos had to leave. They had to keep everyone safe. It was important, even if it was sad, even if Custos deserved more days out in the sun before he had to go back.

Jon gave Custos a long look, as if committing him to memory.

“It was good to talk to you, Jon,” Custos said. “Please, take care of us. And Sylvia and Martin – try to make sure you all have fun at some point? And keep yourself safe?”

“I'll treat you better,” Jon said gently. “ I promise, no more scars. Thank you, Custos.”

Jon picked up the book, opened it to the first image, and began to trace the lines of dust from bird daemon back into the hooded figure. Martin didn't see Custos vanish, but he must have looked away for a moment. When he looked back, only Sylvia was there.

Martin wiped tears from his eyes.

“Oh!” Jon said, sounding surprised. “He's still here!” He smiled at Martin. “He's in here, he's okay.”

“Your daemon's always a part of you,” Sylvia said, as if explaining for the twentieth time. “You'll never lose us.”


End file.
